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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http: //books .google .com/I BUUU4U[^9U 2 27- 7- jimiiiiiiii ~ I 600049029U ^M DISCOURSES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, BY THX REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, LATB PASTOR OP THK FIRST CHURCH IN NEW BBOFORD. U. S. LONDON : CHARLES FOX, PATERNOSTER-ROW. HDCCCXXXV. 22 7- TO THE FIRST CHURCH AND CONGREGATION IN NEW BEDFORD, WbmWsmixuSf ORIGINALLY PREPARED FOR THEIR BENEFIT, ARE AFFECTIONATELY Dleh^ICATED, BY "their LATB: PASTOR AND EVER OBLIGED FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGB I. On Human Nature 9 II. The same subject continued 29 III. On the wrong which Sin does to Human Nature 43 IV. On the adaptation which Religion, to be true and useful, should have to Human Nature 59 V. The Appeal of Religion to Human Nature . 74 VI. Spiritual Interests, real and supreme . . 92 VII. The same subject continued 112 Vm. On Religious Sensibility 124 IX. The same subject continued 143 X. On Religious Indifference 158 XI. The same subject continued 1 74 XII. On Retribution 188 XIII. The same subject continued 206 XIV. On Delay in Religion 229 XV. Arguments for renewed Diligence in Religion 243 XVI. Ck>mpa8sion for the Sinfiil 257 XVn. Grod's Love the chief restraint from Sin and resource in Sorrow 270 XVIII. The Voices of the Dead 283 PREFACE. Cot off i)y ill health from a pastoral connexion t interesting to him, the Author of the following 1 courses was desirous of leaving ujnong the people > his late charge, some i>ermaHeiit record of the interest he has taken in thpni, of the words he has spoken to them, antl of the satisfaction with which he has met them, from Sahbath lo Sabbath, to meditate on ilie great themes of religion — a salisfaclion, let him add, not marred by one moment's disagreement, nor by the altered eye of one individual, during the ten years' con tinuance of that most delicate and affecting relationship. Circumstances, he has thought, may justify a publica- tion of this nature — friendship and kindness may give it value and utility in their limited circle, though it may not be destined to excite any interest in a wider sphere ; and he ventures, therefore, to hope, that this volume may not be entirely useless nor uninteresting to that portion of the religious community generally, with which he has the happiness lo be personally hc- quunted. To his friends — and he caiuiot denij hww- 8 PREFACE.' self the pleasure of including the few that he claims to be of that number in England — he offers this collec- tion of Discourses, with as much anxiety as he ought, perhaps, to feel for any human opinion^ but with an equal reliance on their candour and kindness. NeW'York, fV6. 24, 1835. DISCOURSE I. ON HLTMAH NATURE. Psalm VIII. 4, 5. What is man, that tbgu art mindful uThi and the sod of man that thou lisitcst him ? For thou t made him a littk lower than the angels, and hait c him with glory and honour. You will observe, my brethren, that in these vrordih two distinct and, in a degree, opposite views are given of human nature. Ii is represented, on the oiw hand, as weak and low, and yet, on the other, as lol^y and strong. At one niouient, it presents itself to the inspired writer as poor, humble, depressed, and almost unworthy of the notice of its Maker. But, in the tran- sition of a single sentence, we find him contemplating this same being, man, as exalted, glorious, and almost angelic. " When I consider tliy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained," he says, " what is man that thou art mind- fid of him ?" And yet he adds, " thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour." But, do not these contrasted statements make up, in fact, llie only true view of human nature ? Are they not conformable to the universal sense of mankind, and to llie whole tenor and spirit of our religion ? a5 10 DISCXitlfiSB I. Whene\-er the htunan t^haraottr lit portrayed in colours altogether dark, or altogether bright ; when- arei- the misanthrope pours out his svorn upoii the wickedneBS and baseness of mankind, or the enthii- MKBt lavishes his admiration upon llieir virtues ; do we not always feel tliat there needs to be some qtialiUca- lioa; that there is something to be said on the other side? Nay, more J do not all the varying representations of human nature imply their opposites ? Does not virtue — according to our idea of it, according to the universal idea of it, according to the scriptural repre- sentation of it — imply, that sins and sinful pa&sioiK are siruggled with, and oi-ercome ? And, on the con- trary, does not sin, in its very nature, imply that tbciv are high and sacred powers, capacities, and aifeiHionB. which it violates ? In this view it appears to me, that all unqualified disparagement, as well as praise, of human nature, car- ries with it its own refutation ; and it is to this point that I wish to invite your particular attention in the following discourse. Admitting all that can be asked on this subject by the strongest assertors of human depravity ; admitting everything, certainly, that can b« .stated as a matter of fact ; admitting that men are as bad as they are said to be, and substantially believing it too, I shall argue, that the conclusion to be drawn is «inirely the reverse of that which usually is drawn. I shall argue, that the most strenuous, the most earnest wid indignant, objections against human nattire imply the strongest concessions to its constitutional worth. 'I say then, and repeat, that objection here carries with it its own refutation; that the objector concetks DISCO ORSE t. much, very much, to hiunan nature, by the very tc pn wilii which he hiveiglis against it. ■ It ie not my sole purpose, however, to present a abstract or polemic argiimemt. Rather let me attem to otfer some general and just views of human natunaw and forlhie purpose, rather Ihan forihesakeof contiiM| WTsy. let me pass in brief rexTcw before you, somen the specific and disparaging opinions that have pra vailed in the world concerning it — those, for iuetai of the philosopher and the theologian. ■ In doing this, my purpose is, to admit that much 4 what they say is true ; but to draw from it an infer ence quite different from theirs. I would admit, ■ one hand, that there is much evil in the human heaFti|( but, at the same time, I woidd balance this v blend it with others that claim to be brought into t account. On the one hand, I would admit and enforce liie objection of much and moumfiJ evil in the world; but, on the other, I would prevent it from pressing on the heart, as a discouraging and dead weight of repro* i faatioD and obloquy. - It may appear to you that the opinions which I bam «electeti for our present consideration are, eadi i them, brought into strange company; and yet thq ifaave an affinity which may not at once be susjiectedf^ it is singular, indeed, that we find in the same ranks And waging the same war against all human self- respect, the most opposite descriptions of persons ; the tnoet religious with the moat irreligious, the most cre.J Villous with the most sceptical. If any man su] 4liat it is his superior goodn^s, or purer faith, tleads him to think so badly of his fellow-men and of their very nature, he needs to be remindad t\ia.l-s\E«Ka • on inks self- Hie 13 UtSCOURSK 1. and dissolute habits almost iavariably and unerringly lead to the same result. The maa who is taking- the (lowuward way. with almost «very step, yaw will find, thinks worse of his nature and his species ; till he con- cludes, if he can, that he was made only for sensual indulgence, and that all idea of a future, inlellectiiaL and immortal existence is a dream. And so, if anv man thinks that it is owing (o his spirituality uud heavenly-raindedne-ss, that he pronounces the world 60 utterly corrupt, a mere mass of selfishness and deceit; he may be admonished, that nobody so thoroughly agrees with him as the man of the world, the shrewd, over- reaching, and knavisli practiser on (he weakness or tlie wickedness of his fellows. And, in the same way, the strict and high-toned theologian, as he calls himself, may unexpectedly find himself in company witli the sceptical and scornful philo- soplier. No men have ever more bitterly decried and vilified human nature, than the infidel philosophers of the last century. They contended that man was too mean and contemptible a creature to be the subject of such an interposition as that recorded in the Gospel. 1. But I am to take up, in the first place, and more in detail, the objection of the sceptical philosopher. The philosopher says, that man is a mean creature; not so miich a degraded being, as he is, originally, a poor insignificant creature; an animal, some grades above others, perhaps, but still an animal to suppose the provision of infinite mercy and of mortality to be made, is absurd. It is worth noticing, aa we pass, and I therefoi remark, the strikmg connexion w hich is almost always raoes DISCOURSE r. ]S( ' foiintl between diflferent parts of ei-ery man's belief or Bc«pticdgm. I never knew one to think wrongly aboul God, but hp -very soon be^it fo think wrotigH^J aboHi man : or else the reverse is the proce?*fl tnistfiilly of the Sripreme Being, will think of him S^'J withdrawing himwlf to a sublime distance from suctf'l a nature In other words, he who does not take th^ll 'Christian view, and has no apprehension of the infinft^H lloveofGod, will not believe that he has made mailfl with such noble faculties, or for such noble ends, tiit^M we aasert. The discussion proposed ia obvionaly, ev^^^f in this view, one of no trifling importance. '"^B Let us, then, proceed to the objection of our phitbJfl sopher.- He says, I repeat, that man is a mean cretflW lui«, fit only for the earth on which he ia placed, ftV^^ for no higher destination than to be buried in i19^| iKMom, and there to find his end. The philosophy fl rejects what he calls the theologian's dream aboiltffB the fell. He saVR that man needed no fall in order to H be a degraded creature ; that he is, and was, alwa;;^^ iinrf originally a degraded creature; a being not fallSP^B from virtue, but incapable of virtue ; a being not cor*"* rupt«d from his innocence, but one who never ])0»-<'B sessed innocence ; a being never of heaven, but a beJilg'^ only bf' earth, and sense, and appetite, and never Ht tdr fl anything better. -^ 14 discourse: i. Now let us go at otwe to tJie main point in argu- ment, which is propowd to be illiLstrated in this dis- course. What need, I ask, ot' speaking oi' human debasement in such indicant op sneering tone*, if it is the real and only nature of man ? There is nothing to blame or scorn in man, it' he is naturally sucii a poor and insignificant creatiire. If he was made only for thft senses and appetites, what occasion. I pray, for any wonder or abuse that he is sensual and debased ? Why waste invectives on such a being ? The truth is, That this zealous depreciation of human nature be- trays a consciousness that it is not so utterly worthless after all. It is no sufficient reply to say. that this philosophic scorn has been aroused by the extrava- gance of human pretensions. For if these pretensions were utterly groundless, if the being who aspired to virtue were tit only for sensation, or if the being whose thoughts swelled to the great hope of irn mortality, were only a higher species of the animid creation, and must share its fate — if this were true, his preten- sions could justly create only a feeling of wonder, or of sadness. We might say much to rebut the chai^ of the phi- losopher ; BO injurious to the soul, so fatal to all just self-respect, so fata! to all elevated virtue and devo- tion. We might say that the most ordinary tastes and the most trifling pursuits of man carry, to the obser- vant eye, marks of the nobler mind. We might say that vain trifling, and that fleeting, dying pleasure, does not satisfy the immortal want ; and tJiat toil does not crush the soul, that the body cannot weigh down the spirit to its own drudgery. We might ask our proud reasoner, moreover, whence the moral and DISCOURSE 1. luetapliysical plillosapber obtains the facta witli whi he speculates, and argues, and builds up his adniira^l ble theory ? And our sceplic must answer that tin metaphysical and moral philosopher goes to hui nature; that he goes to it in its very attitudes of tm and its fre« actings of passion, and thence takes h materials and his form, and his living charm of repre- 1 sentatJon, which delight the world. We might sa^l still more. We might say that all there is of I'astnai and grandour and beauty in the world, lies in t conception of man : that the immensity of the i verse, aa we terra it, is but the reach of his imagi tion' — that immensity, in other words, is but the ima^ of his own idea ; tl) at there is no eternity to him, but I I that which exists in his own unbounded thought ; that 1 ' there is no Ciod to man, but what has been conceived [ in his own capacious and unmeasured under- These things we might say ; but I will rather meet ' e objector on hia own ground, confident that I may numph even there. I take up the indignant argu- ment, then. I allow that there is much weight and nth in it, ihoTigh it brings me to a different condusion. I feel that man is, in many respetts and in many situ- —and, above all, compared with wliat be should an is a mean creature. 1 feel it, as I should |f^ I saw some youth of splendid talents and promise plunging in at the door of vice and inlamy. Yes, it f4v meanness for a man — who stands in the presence «f his God and among the sons of heaven — it is F wteennesa in him to play the Immble part of sycophant ^ore his fellows — ^to fawn and flatter, to make his f soul a slave, barely to gain from that feUovi-vas&A. 16 DISCOURSE I. liis sroile, liis nod, his hand— his favour. hU vo^, his patronage. It is meanness for a mtut to pmvarjivte and faUify, to sell his consdenee for advamag?. to barter his soul for gain, to give )us noble bruw to tlif smiting blush of shame, or his ehevk to ilie deadjy paleness of convicted dishoiiesly. \ es, it is a .degrti- (latiou unutterable, for a man to steep his soul in groas, sensual, bpsutting indulgence; to live fur lliis, and iti iliis one poor, low sensation to shut up the fuiod with all its boundless range; to sink to a debasemeat moi« than beastly; below where an animal can go, Yte, all this, and much beside tliis is meanness ; but why, now I ask — why do we speak of it thus, unless jt is because we speak of a being who might have put on such a nobility of soul, and such a loftiness aud in- tlependence, and spiritual beauty and glory, as would Hing rebuke upon all the hosts of sin and temptation, and cast dimness upon all the splendour of the world? it may be proper, under the head of pliilosoplucal objections, to take notice of the celebi'ated majctm of Rochefoucauld; since it is among the written, and has as good a title as others to be among the philor Sophie, objections, Tliia maxim is, that we take a sort of pleasure in the disappointments and miseries of others, ajid are pained at their good fortune and s^e- cess. If this maxim were intended to fix upon m^n- kind the charge of pure, absolute, disinterested m^^- nity, and if it could be sustained, it would be fatal to my argument. If I believed this, I should believe not only in total, but in diabolical depravity. And i ^ja aware that the apologists for human nature, receiving tile maxim in this light, have usually contcnicd them- selves with indignantly denying its tmtii. I shall, how- DISCOL'HSF, I, l^** ever, for myself take different ground. I supposei'B and I admit, that the maxim is true to a. certain ^>nfl tent Yet I deny that the feelings on which it JiM founded are malignant. They may be selfish, theJ|V may be bad ; but they are not malicious and diaboli^ cal. But let us explain. It should be premised, thofll there is nothing wrong in our desiring the goods ana's advantages of life, provided the desire be kept wit hill* I proper bounds. Suppose, then, that you are pursuinj**fl the same object with your neighbour, — a situation, aif*l office, for instance, — and suppose that he sncceecm'B His success, at the first disclosure of it to you, wil^l af course, give you a degree of pain ; and for thn^ season' — it immediately brings the sense of your oWirl .^appointment. Now it is not wrong, perhaps, thaffl ffO\x do regret your own faihtre ; it is probably una-'fl groidable that you should. You feel, perhaps, that yoir 1 need or deserve the appointment more than youV*B fival. You cannot help, therefore, on every accounts V dWgretting that he has obtained it. It does not foUow'l Uiat you wish him any less happy. You may make I le distinction in your own mind. You may say — " I J no glad he is happy, but I am sorry he has the place;* I wish he could be as bappy in some other situation, ■ ^ov, all this, so far from being malignant, is scarcel^' I ilfish ; and even when the feeling, in a very ba^ I piind, is altogether selfish, yet it is very different froBi I malignant pain at another's good fortune. But noirV |kt us extend the case a little, from immediate rivalij ibip. to that general competition of interests whiclrl society — a competition which the selfishneS^'S «f men makes to be far more than is necessary, aii^l eonceivee to be far greater than it is. Ttxete i& ^^4 18 DISCOURSE I. ^^B irroneoua idea, or imagination, shall 1 call it — and rertainlyit is one of the moral delusions of the world, — ihat somplhing gainnl by another is sometbing lut to one's self; and hence tile feeling, before described, may arixe at almost any iiidiil'erent instance of good fortunp. But it always rises in this proportion : — it is ■itrongrr, the nearer the caso conies to direct compe- tition. Vou do not pn\T a rich man in China, nor a great man in Tartary. But if envy, as it has beeo sometimes called, were pure malignity, a man should be sorry lhat any body is happy, that any body is fiw- iimale or honoured in the world. But this is not true ; it does not apply to human nature. If you e*er fed pain at the successes or acquisitions of another, it is when they come into comparison or contrast with your own failures or de6ciencies. Yon feel that thoee successes or acquisitions might have been your own; you regret, and perhaps rightly, that they are not; and then, you ia'^ensibly slide into the very wrong I'eeling of regret that they belong to another. This is envy ; and it is sufficiently base ; but it is not piirdy malicious, and it is, in fact, the perversion of a teeling originally capable of good and valuable uses. But I must pursue the sceptical philosopher a step tarther — into actual life. The tenn, philosopher, may seem to be but ill applied here ; but we have probably all of us known or heard those, who, pretending to have a considerable knowledge of the world, if not much other knowledge, take upon them, with quite an air of philosophic superiority, to pronounce human nature nothing but a mass of selfishness ; and to say, tliat this mass, whenever it is refiuetl, is only refined into luxury and licentiousness, duplicity and knavery. DiscotntsB I. nn Some simple souls, they suppose, there may be in th»fl retired comers of the earth, that are walking in tit^M chains of mechanical habit or suporetitioua pie^B who have not the knowledge to understand, nor ttuf ■ courage to seek, what they want. But the momeairl they do act freely, they act, says our objector, uporiM the selfish principle. And this, he maintains, is th0a principle which, in fact, governs the world. Nay; I more, he avers that it is the only reasonable and 3iifii4 I cient principle of action ; and freely confesses that it it( I his own. ' I Let me ask you here to keep distinctly in view tlitf I gromid which the objector now assumes. There ar^fl talkers against human virtue, who never think, howf ■ ever, of going to this length 5 men, in fact, who are ef I great deal better than their theory ; whose examplf^ I indeed, refutes their theory. But there are worst I objectors, and worse men ; vicious and corrupt menj I aensualists — sensualists in philosophy and in practio* I alike; who would gladly believe all the rest of th^l world as bad as themselves. And these are objecton^ J i say, who, like the objections before stated, refute 1 I themselves. I J »i For who is this small philosopher, that smiles either 1 W^ the simplicity of a,U honest men, or at the simplicity •! 1 vf all honest defenders of them? He is, in the tlrat I |4aoe, a man who stands up before us, and has the face I 6 boast that he is himself without principle. No doubt J he thinks other men as bad as himself. A man neces4 1 satily, perhaps, judges the actions of other men by h)^ I own feelings. He has no other interpreter. TbeV honest man, therefore, will often presume honesty iJi I another ; and the generous man, geneio^^^.^ . K.'n.&.'irffl so DISCOURSE I. ihe s<-16sh man can see nothing around him but selfisli- ness; and the knaie nothing but dishonesty; and he who never felt anything of a generous and self-deiiot- ing piety, who never bowwl down in that boly and blessed worship, can see in prayer nothing but the offering of selfish fear, — in piety nothing but a slavish superstition. In the next place; this sneerer at all virtue and piety not only imagines others to be as destitute of principle eis himself, but, to some extent, he malies them such, or makes them seem such. His eye of pride chills every goodly thing it looks upon. His breath of scorn blights every generous virtue where it comes. His supple and crafty hand puts all men upon their guard. They become like himself, for the time ; they become more crafty while they deal with liim. How shall any noble aspiration, any high and pure thoughts, any benevolent purposes, any sacred and holy communing, venture into the presence of the proud and selfish scorner of all goodness ! It has beeii said that the letters your friends write to you will show their opinion of your temper and tastes. And so it is, to a certain extent, with conversation. But, in the third place ; where, let us ask, baa this man studied human nature ? Lord Chesterfield ob- serves — and the observation is worthy of a man who never seems to have looked beneath the surface of any- thing — that the court and the camp are the places in which a knowledge of mankind is to be gaincil. And we may remark, that it is from two fields not alto- gether dissimilar, tliat our sceptic about virtue always gains his knowledge of mankind : I mean, from fashion and business ; the two most artificial spheres of active Our objector has witnessed heartless civilitiee, BhI imagines that he is acquainted with the deep founr H^s of human nature. Or, he has been out into th^ j jbaths of busineaa, and seen men girt up for competi- ion, and acting in that artificial state of things which tide produces ; and lie imaginee that he has witnessed 1 Die free and unsophisticated workings of the human leart ; he supposes that the laws of trade are also the ' aws of human affection. He thinks himself deeply Bad in the book of the human heart, that unfathom- fijle mysterj', because he is acquainted with notes and j ytfnds, with cards and compliments. How completely, then, is this man disqualified front Pudging of human nature! There is a power, which I mr possess, which none have attained in perfection ; , h j>ower to unlock the retired, the deeper, and nobler iBDsihilities of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded : ttd hidden virtues of the soid, to open the fountains i ich custom and ceremony and reserve have sealed | a power, I repeat, which few possess — hoiir | ^dently does oiu- objector possess it not — and yet I irithout some portion of which, no man should think umself qualified to study human nature. Men know j ^l little of each other, after all; but little know how i .ny good and tender affections are suppressed and ' out of sight, by diffidence, by delicacy, by the fear | appearing awkward or ostentatious, by habits the hM sin: but ho does not find it there—and that is 1m glory. No, he does not find it there ; he returns tti»- appointed and melanclioly; and there is notiirngoii earth so eloquent as his grief. Read it in the pagesiof a Byron and a Bums. There is nothing in literatura so touching as these lamentations of noble but erring natures, in the vain quest of a happiness which sin audi the world can never give. The sinner is often dazzlsd by earthly fortune and pomp, but, it is in tlie very raidat of these things, tliat he sometimes most feds their emptiness ; that his higher nature most feels that it is solitary and unsatisfied. It is in the giddy whirl ofifrivoloua piirsuitB and amusements that his soul oftentimes is sick and weary with trifles and vanities : that " ho says of laughter, it is mad ; and of mirth, what doeth it ?" I DISCODHSK r. 2? I And yet it is not bare disappointment, nor the mere destitution of happiness caused by sin, — it is not these alone that give testimony to a better nature. There it a higher power that bears sway in the human heart! It- is remorse — sacred, uncompromising remorse, thai will hear of no seltish calculations of pain and pleasure that demandi to Kufier ; that, of all sacrifices or save those of benevolence, brings the only willin victim. What lofty revenge does the abused soid thus take for its ofi'encea ; never, no, never, in anger, punlsliing another, as, in its justice, it punisht itself! Such, then, are the attributes that still dwell in t daric grandeur of the soul ; the beeans of original lighi of which amidst its thickest darkness it is never shorn That in which all the nobleness of earth residi sliould not be condemned even, but with awe andl trembling. It is our treasure ; andif this is lost, all ii lost Let us take care, then, that we be not unjurt Man is not an angel ; but neither is he a demon, nOS a brnte. The evil he does is not committed witi brutisli insensibility, nor witli diabolical satisfactioni^ And the evil, too, is often disguised under forms thsA do not, at once, permit him to see its real charactart*^ His affections become wrong by excess ; passions 1 vilder; semblances delude; interests ensnare ; pie corrupts. And yet no tyrant over men's thoughts, no unworthy seeker of their adulation, no pander for llieir guilty pleasures, could ever make the human heart what he would. And in making it what he has, he has c&eti ibund that he had lo work with stubborn mat»- jials. No perseverance of endeavour, nor devices of inuity, nor depths of artifice, have cvct «^3.a!\<^ ^1. DISCOURSE I. those which are Bometimos eniploywi to corrupt llir heart from its youthful simpUcity atul uprightness. In endeavouring to state the views which are to be entetlEiJued of human natui?, 1 have, at present, and before I reverse the picture, bwt one lurTher observa- tion to make : and that is on the apirit and tone with which it is to be viewed and spoken of. I have wished, even in speaking of its faults, to awaken a feeling of reverence and regret for it, such as wcnUd arise within us, on beholding a noble but mutilated statue, or the work of some divine architect in ruins/ or some majestic object in Nature wliich had been marred by the rending of this world's elements and changes. Above all other objects, surely human nature deserves to be regarded with these sentiments. The ordinary tone of conversation in allusion to this sub- ject, the sneering remark on mankind, as a set of poor and miserable creatures, the cold and bitter severity, whether of philosophic sfom, or theological rancour, become no being ; least of all. him who has part in this common nature. He, at least, shoidd speak nitb consideration and tenderness. And if he must spesk of faults and sins, he would do well lo imitate an Apostle, and to tell these things, even weeping. His toae should be that of forbearance and pity. His words should be recorded in a Book of Lamentations. " How is the gold become dim," he might exclaim in the words of an ancient lamentation — " how is the gold beocune dim, and the most fine gold changed ! The predous sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how we they esteemed but as earthen vesseb, the wOflt.pf ihe lands of the potter !" DISCOURSE ON HUMAN NATURE. ^«u.ii Till. 9. For thou but mule him a little lomr tl aogeK and hast crowned him with glor? anJ honour. t HAVE endeavoured, ia my last discourse, to j ibat the \"ery objections which are usually bmnght kgainst human nature, imply, in the very fiict, in Ihe TOTy spirit and tone of thmi, the strongest eoneessioDi ] ( its worth. I ehall now procwd to the direct a temt in its ftii'our. It in iho constitutional worth a Ikuman nature that we have thns far considered, rathrt 1 1 its moral worth or absolute virtue. We have 1 r«enKidered the indignant reproaches against its sin and ^ Abasement, whether of the philosopher or the theolo- ^^an, as evidence of their own conviction, that it was adc for something better. We have considered that Itboral constitution of human nature, by which i( w Wridentiy made not to be the slave of sin, but its I »n^eror. ' Let us now proceed to take some account of it« , ral traits and acq uisiit ions. I say its moral Iraitf ind acquisitions : for there are feelings of the human KUnd, which scarcely rise to the character of acquisi- Sdbs, which are involuntary impulees ; and yet which 30 DISCOURSE II. possess a nature as truly moral, though not in as high a degree, as any voluntary acts of virtue. Such is the simple, natural love of excellence. It bears the same relation to moral effort as spontaneous reason does to reflection or logical effort : and what is spontaneous, in both cases, is the very foundation of the acqnisitiQns that follow. Thus, the involuntary perception of a few axioms lies at the foundation of mathematical science; and so from certain spontaneous impressi^xis of truth springs all knowledge ; and in the same man- ner, our spontaneous moral impressions are the germs of the highest moral efforts. Of these spontaneous impressions I am to speak in the first place, and then to produce in favour of humail nature the testimony of its higher and more confirmed virtues. But I am not willing to enter upon this theme without first offering a remark or two, to prevent any misconception of the purpose for which I again bring forward this discussion. It is not to bring to the altar at which I minister an oblation of flattery to my fellow- worshippers. It is not to make any man fed his moral dangers to be less, or to make him easier in reference to that solemn spiritual trust that is com-' mitted to his nature ; but the very contrary. It isnot to make him think less of his sins, but more. It isnot, in fine, to build up any one theological dogma, .or to beat down another. My view of the subject, if I may state it without presumption, is this — that there is a treasure in human nature of which most men are not conscious, and with which none are yet fully acquainted f If you had met in a retired part of the country with some rustic DiSCOORSE II. 3t] youth, who bore in his character the Indications of A I icost sublime genius, and if you saw tlia,t he w^l ignorant of it, and that those around him were igH4i»-'l rant of it, you would look upon him with ej^trenwh I with, enthusiastic interest, and you would be aiixiouv I to bring him into the light, nnd to rear huu up to hip | proper sphere of distinction. This, may I be pBi* mitted to say. Illustrates the view which I take «f human nature. I believe that there Is something in every man's heart upon which he ought to look as B'found treasure; something upon wliich he OugiH , to look with awe and wonder ; something wltiojl a should make him tremble when he thinks of sacri- I ticing it to sin ; something, also, to encourage aMi ' cheer him in every endeavour after virtue and purity^ Par be It from mo to say that that something is eoll- £tTQ?d goodness, or is the degree of goodness which is i tecessary to make him happy here or hereafter; o ihat it is something to rest upon, or to rely upon, i 'le antjeipatlon of God's judgment. Still I belieKb I ^hat be who says there is nothing good in him, ns f lundation, no feeling of goodness, saya what is n(ft J Kie, what is not just to himself, what is not just to htfi 1 aker's hcnefieence. 1 will refer now to those moral traits, to those ior j ^^ tlnntary moral impressions, of which I have alread^y ^oken. Instances of this nature might undoiibtedly be drawa every department of social life ; from social kind- from friendship, from parental and filial loy% I the feehnga of spontaneous generosity, pity, ano [ration, which every day kindles into life and htarmtb around us. But since these feelings are often r 82 DISCOURSE n. alleged to be of a doubtiiiL character, and are so. iRdeed, to a certmn extent, ^nce they are often inisMi up with interested considerations which lessen their weight in this argument^ 1 am about to appeal to cases, which, though they are not often brought into the pulpit, will appear to you, I trust, to be excused, if not justified, by the circumstance that they are alto- gether apposite cases ; cases, that is to say, of disn- terested feeling. The world is inundated in this age with a perfect deluge of fictitious productions. I look, indeed, upon the exclusive reading of such works, in which tno many employ their leisure time, as having a very bad and dangerous tendency : but this is not to my pur- pose at present. I only refer now to the weU-knom fixtent and fascination of this kind of reading, for the purpose of putting a single question. I ask, nhat if the moral character of tliese productions ? Not high enough, certainly j but then I ask still more speciG' cally, whether the preference is given to virtue or to vice, in these books, and to which of them the fed- ings of the reader generally lean ? Can there be one moment's doubt ? Is not virtue usually held up Id admiration, and are not the feelings universally «i- listed in its favour .' Must not the character of the leading personage in the story, to satisfy the public taste, be good, and is not his career pursued wiili intense interest to the end ? Now, reverse the case. Suppose his chai'iicler to be bad. Suppose him un- generous, avaricious, sensual, debased. Would he then be admired? Would he then enlist the sympa- thies even of Ihe most frivolous reader ? It is unne- cessary to aiisKor the question. Here, then, is a right t>iSCOCIU)K II. and virtuous feeling at work in tho community : a it is a perfectly disinterested feeling. Here, I ) 1b a right and virtuoua feeling, beating through t whole he-art of society. Why ebould any one say i IS not a feeling ; that it is conscience ; thiU it is met approbation 1 It t> a feeling, if any thing is. TbeN 18 intense interest, there are tears, to testify that it a A feeling. If, then, I put nuch a book into the hands of atiji reader, and if he feels this, let him not tell me ihatl there is nothing good in hitn. There may not \m\ l^odnees, fixed, habitual goodness in him; but then ia something good, out of which goodness may grow. < - Of the same character are the most favourite popiHl lar songs and ballads. The chosen themes of tiieia| oompositions are patriotism, generosity, [uty, to< Kow it is known that nothing sinks more deeply i the heart of nations, and yet these are their then let me make the ballads of a people, some one h •teid, and let who will make their laws; and yet 1 must construct them on these principles-; he mm compose them in praise of patriotism, honour, fidelit; ^nerous sympathy, and pure love. I say., pure li liet the passion be made a base one ; let it be capTi*>fl linoua, mercenary, or sensual, and it instantly lose^ tlM>f iHic sympathy : the song would be instantly his. .from the stage of tho vilest theatre that ever i ^^>ened. Xo, it must be true-hearted affection, hold ing its faith and fealty Ij ght f-ad unsoiled ami .change of fortunes, amidst poverty, and disaster, i feepanttion, and reproach. The popular taste ■ bardly allow the affection to Iw as prudent as it oiigl 40 be. And when I listen to one of t\\e«« y^^v^ 34 mscoaRSB u. ballads or songs that tells — ^it may be not in the best taste — but which tells the thrilluig tale of high, dkin* lerested, magnanimous fidelity to the sentiments of the heart ; that tells of pure and faithful affeetion, which ho cold looks can chill, which no storms of misfortune can quench, which prefers simple merit to all worldly splendour; when I observe this, I say, I see a noble feeling at work ; and that which many will pronounce to be silly, through a certain shame- £acedness about their own sensibility, I regard as respectable and honourable to human nature. Now I say again, as I said before, let these popular compositions set forth the beauties of vice ; let them celebrate meanness, parsimony, fraud, or cowardice, and would they dwell, as they now do, in the habita- tions, and in the hearts, and upon the lips of whole nations? What a disinterested testimony is this td the charms of virtue ! What evidence that men feel those charms, though they may not be won by them to virtuous lives ! The national songs of a people do not embrace cold sentiments : they are not sung or heard with cold approbation. They tire the breasts of millions ; they draw tears from the eyes of ten thou- sand circles, that are gathered in the homes of human affection. And the power of music, too, as a separate thing — the power of simple melody I mean — ^lies very much, as it seems to me, in the sentiments and affections it awakens. There is a pleasure to the ear, doubtless ; but there is a pleasure, also, to the heart ; and this is the greater pleasure. But what kind of pleasure is it? Does that melody which addresses the universal mind appeal to vile and base passions ? Is not the state into DISCOUBSE II. 3H which it naturally throws almost evc^ry miad favouafl able: to gentto and liind einotioua, to lofty efforts ^'^^^ beroic aacritices? But if the human heart possessc^fl w* higli nor holy feehngs, if it were entirely alien ,fffl liienii thou the music which excites theni> sliould excJUtl 4hem to voluptuousness, cruehyi strife, fraud, arariqfa knd to all the mean aiiua ami indulgences of a sellMil imposition. .^1 - Let not these illustrations — which are adopted, tc^ J Cure, partly because they are titt«d to unfold a moi'^ I character where no credit has usually been given fptj 4t, snd because, too, they present at once universal andfl otistnte rested manifestations of human feeling. — let u^lfl .tbeee' illustrations, 1 say, be thought to furnish ^,aM ■vnsatibtaCtory inference, because they are drawn from ^ Ae hghter actions of the human mind. The feeling ' all these cases is not superficial nor feeble ; and t^ J Uighter the occasion that awakens it, the stronger>^J Mrar ailment. If the leisure and recreations of lUMM lUt' such evidence of deep moral feeling, what aiol Kfaey not capable of when armed with loi'ty purjioaSM engaged in high duties ? If the instnimont yieldM cobla strains, though incoherent and intcrmitt^rl the slightest touch, what might not be' done if thd^ liand of skill were laid upon it, to bring out all its sub- 1 hannoaies? Oh! that some powerful voice might 1 to this inward nature — powerful as the story of J tloeds, moving as the voice of song, arousing as J be trunrpet-Kdi to honour and victory! My friend«i J >we are among those who are pursuing the sinfttlkA let u* be assured that. we know not ourselveo-fl { we have not searched I he depths of our natur« m have not conununed willi fXs deepest wants; wofl S6 DISCOURSE U. have not listened to its strongest aiid highest aflfections; if we had done all this, we could not abuse it as we do ; nor could we neglect it as we do. But it is time to pass from these instances of spon- taneous and universal feeling to those cases in which ^uch feeling, instead of being occasional and evanes- cent, is formed into a prevailing habit and a consistent and iSxed character; to pass from good affections^ transient^ uncertain, and unworthily neglected, to good men, who are permanently such, and worthy to be <:alled such. Our argument from this source is more confined, but it gains strength by its compression within a narrower compass. I shall not be expected here to occupy the time with asserting or proving that there are good men in the world. It will be more important to reply to a single objection under this head, which would be fatal if it were just, and to point to some characteristics of human virtue which prove its great and real worth. Let me, however, for a moment indulge myself in the simple assertion of what every mind, not entirely misan- thropic, must feel to be true. I say, then, that there are good men in the world : there are good men every- where. Th6re are men who are good for goodness* sake. In obscurity, in retirement, beneath the shadow of ten thousand dwellings, scarcely known to the world, a,nd never asking to be known, there are good men. In adversity, in poverty, amidst temptations, amidst 3,11 the severity of earthly trials, there are good men, whose lives shed brightness upon the dark clouds that surround them. Be it true, if we must admit the sad truth, that many are wrong, and persist in being wrong : that many are false to every holy trust, and DISCOURSE ] faithless toWftrda every holy affecfion ; that many a estranged from infinite goodness ; that many are coldl selfish and meanly sensual — yes, cold and dead 1 ^■erything that is not wrapped up in their own littf •arthly interest, or more darkly wrap|>ed \i veil of fleshly appetites. Bt' it so ; hut I ihank Go< »hat is not all that we are obliged to believe. No! there are true hearts amidst llie throng of the false as! the faithleas. There are ivarni ami generous hes wliich tile cold atmosphere of surrounding selfishnaj iie^er chills ; and eyes, unused to weep for persond sorrow, which often overflow with sympathy for flat sorrows of others. A'es, there are good men, and tro men: I thank them, I bless them for what they ares I i thank them for what they are to me. What do I «ay — why do I utter my weak henwliclion ? God from «n Iiigh doth bless them, and he giveth his angels 'Charge to keep them ; and nowhere in the holy record Hire there words more precious or strong than those in !%hich it is written that God loveth these righteous Such men are there. Let not their precious virtues be distrusted. As surely aiid as evidently as men have obeyed the calls of ambition and ^easure, so surely, and so evidently, have other men ltA)eyed the voice of conscience, and " chosen rather to tfler with the people of God than to enjoy the plea- ires of sin for a season." VVliy, every meek man ~ in a conflict keener far than the contest for fa»iour and applause. And there are such men, who ^^ lidst injury, and insult, and misconstruction, and the ^Knntcd finger, and tJie scornful lip of pride, stand firm their integrity and all^iance to a loftier principle. ' still their throbbing hearts in prayer, and hush 38 DISCOURSfi 11. thani' to th& gentle motbiifi of .kindness aaflLpiiyi. - Such witnesses there are even in this bad world; asgiisi dnt a. redeeming work is going forward amidst .its moam- iiil derelictions ; proofs that it is not a world ifavsajken of heaven ; pledges that it will not be farsakea;^ tokens that cheer and touch every good and thoughtful iiiiiid» beyond all other power of earth to penetrate sold enkindle k; I believe that what I have now said 'is a most legi^. timabe argument for the worth of human; nature. Aa a matter <^ facty it will not be denied that such ^beings as I have represented, there are. Aind I now further maintain, and this is the most material point in .the argument, that such men — that good men, in othel: \vords — are to be regarded as the rightful and kg}^ tknate representatives of human nature. Surely^ not man's sins, but his virtues, not his failure, but his- sui> cess> should teach us what to think of his nature. Just as we should look, for their real character, to the pro^ ductions nourished by a favourable soil and climate; and not to the same plants or trees as they stand withered and stunted in a barren desert. But here we are met with the objection before referred to. It is said that man's virtues come fDom God; and his sms only from his own nature. And thus — for this is the result of the objection—tlipom the estimate of what is human, all human excellence is at once cut off, by this iine discrimination of theo- logical subtilty. Unreasonable as this seems tome"^ if the objector will forget his theology for one moment —I wiir answer it. I say, then, that the influence of the good spirit of God dpes not destroy our natmml powers, but giddes them into a right direction; that DiscouasE II. jt iloes not create any thing unnatural, surely, nor a pernatural in man, but what is suitable to his natural in fine, his virtues are as tiiily the voluntary putffl forih of his native powers aa hia sina are. irould his virtues have no worth. Human nature, jriiort, ia the noble stock on which these virtues grom I JVith heaven's rain, and sunshine, and genial influencsjS lo you say 1 Be it so ; still they are no less liui 4ud ghoui the slock from which they spring. Wheal rou look over a grain-field, and see some parta niordl luxuriant than others, do you say that they are of af different nature from the rest ? And when you loo) abroad upon the world, do you think it right to ta) Tartars and Hottentota as specimens of the race?^ And why, then, shall you regard the worst of mesyl father than the best, aa aamples of human nature an4'l sapability ? The way, then, is open for us to claim for human nature — however that nature is breathed upon by heavenly influences — to claim for human nature all the excellent fruits that have sprung from it. they are not few ; they are not small ; they are i contemptible. They have cost too much — if ihere were no othocl eonsideration to give them value — they hare cost too J much to he thus estimated. The true idea of human nature is not that it panfl Bvely and spontaneously produces its destined results f I but that, placed in a fearful contest between good ( evil, it is capable of glorious exertions and atts tnents, Human virtue is the result of effort i |iatience, in circumstances that most severely try i Human excellence is much of it gained at the espeni 40 DISCOURSE U« of self-denial. All the wisdom and worth in the vrorid, are a struggle with ignorance^ and infirmityy and temptation ; often with sickness and pain. There is not an admirable character presented before y>»u but it has cost years and years of toil and watching and self-government to form it. You see the victor, b«l you forget the battle. And you forget it, for a rea«m that exalts and ennobles the fortitude and courage of the combatant. You forget it^ because the coBfiiet has been carried on, all silently^ in his own bosonou You forget it, because no sound has gcHie forth, and no wreath of fame has awaited the conqueror. And what has he gained? — ^to refer to but one more of the many views that might be urged — what has he gained ? I answer, what is worth too much to be slightly estimated. The catalogue of human virtues is not brief nor dull. What glowing words do we involuntarily put into that record ! with what feelings do we hallow it ! The charm of youthful excellence ; the strong integrity of manhood; the venerable piety of age ; unsullied honour; unsweniug truth ; fidelity ; magnanimity ; self-sacrifice ; martyrdom, ay, and the spirit of martyrdom in many a form of virtue ; sacred friendship, with its disinterested toil, ready to die for those it loves; noble patriotism, slain in its high places, beautiful in death ; holy philanthropy, that pours out its treasure and its life ; — dear and blessed virtues of himianity ! (we are ready to exclaim) — what human heart does not cherish you ? — ^bright cloud that hath passed on with " the sacramental host of God^s elect,** through ages! how dark and desolate but for you would be this world's history ! My friends, I have spoken of the reality and worth DISCOURSE II. it is in his ovm nature, whose glo- rious traits are dimmed and almost blotted out^ whose pleading remonstrances are sternly disregarded^ whose immortal hopes are rudely stricken down— -it is in hil own nature that he does a work so dark and moutn- ful, and so fearful, that he ought to shudder and weep to think of it. Does any one say '^he is glad that it is so; glad that it is himself he injures most ?" What a feeling, my brethren, of disinterested justice is that ! How truly may it be said, that there is something good ev^ in bad men. Yes, doubtless, there are those who in their remorse at an evil deed would be glad if all the injury and suffering could be their own. I rejoice in that testimony. But does that feeling make it krty less tnie, — does not that feeling make it more true, that such a nature is wronged by base and selfish passions ? Or, because it is a man's self — ^because it is his own soul that he has most injured, — because he has not only wronged others, but ruined himself, — is his course any the less guilty, or unhappy, or unnatural ? I say unnatural ; and this is a point on which I wish to insist, in the consideration of that wrong which the moral offender does to himself. The sinner, I say, is macouKSE iii. to be pronounced an unnatural being. He has off the government of those powers of his naturej' which, as being the loftiest, have the best right to reign «rer him — the government, lliat is lo say, of his intel- lectual and moral faculties, and has yielded himself to meaner appetites. Those meaner appetites, thou^ they belong to his nature, have no right, and he knowf ^ey have no right, to govern him. The rightftd au« !diority, the lawful sovereignty belongs, and he knowif Utat it belongs, not to sense, but to conscience. To lebel against this is to siu against Nature. It is ttf tebel against Nature's order. It is to rebel against thrf government that God has set up within him. It is ts obey, not venerable authority, but the faction whit^ tikis pas^ns have made within him. (I Thus violence and misrule are always the part 6| (aransgressioo. Nay, every sin — I do not mean now .^e natural and unavoidable imperfection of a weaH I. and ignorant being, — but every wilful moral oflenocj Aowers of the plant or tree are converted, or rathe^ . jierverted to this misuse, and helped to produce this de- formity ; yet the deformity is not natural. Grant tbol 'aia is the possible or supposable, or that it is the actuali uy, and in this world, the common, result of mora] j^aedotn. It has been argued, I know, that what U in is natural ; and grant that too. But sin, M 1 46 DISCOURSE lU. believe, is not common in the whole moral universe. It is not the common result of miiversal moral action. And it is evidently not the just and legitiniate result; it is not the fair and natural result; it violates all moral powers and responsibilities. If the mechanism of a vast manufactory were thrown into sudden dis- order, the power which propels it, — and a power, if you please, which the artificer had placed in it, — might, indeed, spread destruction throughout the whole work; but would that be the natural course of things; the result for which the fabric was made ? So passion, not in its natural state, but still natural pas^on, in its unnatural state of excess and fury, may spread disor- der and destruction through the moral system ; but wreck and ruin are not the proper order of any nature, whether material or moral. The idea against which I am now contending, that sin is natural to us, and, in fact, that nothing else is natural — this popular and prevailing idea, is one, it seems to me, so fearful and fatal in its bearingjs — 'is one of such comprehensive and radical mischief, as to infect the religious state of all mankind, and to oyer- shadow, almost with despair, the moral prospects of the world. There is no error, theological or moral, that appears to me so destructive as this. There is nothing that lies so near the very basis of all moral reform and spiritual improvement as this. If it were a matter of mere doctrine it would be of less consequence. But it is a matter of habitual feel- ing, I fear, and of deep-settled opinion. The world, alas! is not only in the sad and awful condition of being filled with sin, and filled with misery in canse-^ quence, but of thinking that this is the natural order o^ DISCOURSE HI. 4%^ things. Sin tsathingofcourse; it is taken for grantow that it tniiat exist very much in the way that it does and men are everywhere easy about it, — they are everywhtre sinking into worldlinesa and vice, as if they were acting out the principles of their mora! constitution, and almost as if they were fulfilling thft will of God. And thus it comes to pass, that that which should fill the world with grief, and astonishment, anA horror, heyond all things else most horrible and mentable, ts regarded with perfect apathy, as a thiogfj natural and necessary. Why, my brethren, if but animal creation were found, on a sudden, disobediei to the principles of /AwV nature, if they were ceasi to regard tlie guiding instincts with which they jntdowed, and were rushing into universal madness*; iflie whole world would stand aghast at the sppctaclsi' Bttl midtitudes in the rational creation dlsob^ a lligher law and forsake a more sacred guidance ; they degrade themselves below the beasts, or make them- fldres as entirely creatures of this world ; they plunge. ittto excess and profligacy ; they borv down divine ancbl immortal fiaculties to the basest uses, and there iWouder, there is no horror, there is no consciousnesit ef the wrong done to themselves. They say, "it is the attiral course of things," as if they had solved tha 'hole problem of moral evil, They say, "it is the way r the world," almost as if they thought it was the oMerof Providence. They say, "it is what men are," almost as if they thought it was what men were de- signed to be. And thus ends their comment, and with it all reasonable endeavour to make themselves better and happier. If this state of prevailing opinion bo as c«vta.wi.''i I 1 48 DiscouRSB nt. erroneous as it is evidently dangerous, it is of the lastim* portance, that every resistance, however feeble, should be offered to its fatal tendencies. Let us therefore consider, a little more in detail, the wrong which sin does to human nature . I say, then , that it does a wrong to every natural faculty and power of the mind. Sin does a wrong to reason. There are instances, and not a few, in which sin, in various forms of vice and vanity, absolutely destroys reason. There are other and more numerous cases in which it employs that faculty, but employs it in a toil most degrading to its nature. There is reasoning, indeed, in the mind of a miser ; the solemn arithmetic of profit and loss. There is reasoning in the schemes of unscrupulous ambition; the absorbing and agitating intrigue for office or honour. There is reasoning upon the modes of sensual pleasure ; and the whole power of a very acute mind is sometimes employed and absorbed in plans, and projects, and imaginations of evil indul- gence. But what an unnatural desecration is it, for reason — sovereign, majestic, all-comprehending reason —to contract its boundless range to the measure of what the hand can grasp — to be sunk so low as to idolize outward or sensitive good ; to make its god, not indeed of wood or stone, but of a sense or a nerve ! What a prostration of immortal reason is it, to bend its whole power to the poor and pitiful usefe which sinful indul- gence demands of it ! Sin is a kind of insanity. So far as it goes, it makes man an irrational creature : it makes him a fool. The consummation of sin is ever, and in every form, the extreme of folly. And it is that most pitiable folly, which is puffed up with arrogance and self-sufficiency. DISCOVRSE III. 49n Sin degrades, it impoverishes, it beggars tlie Btnil; andfl yet the soul, in this very coDdition, blesses itself in it^H superior endowments und happy fortune. Yes, everyB sinner ia a beggar, as truly as the most needy and dcs-^fl I>erate meniiicant. He begs for a precarious happi'-fl ness ; he begs it of his possessions or his cotTers thafrj (;annot give it j he begs it of every passing trifle aild>l pleasure ; he begs it of things most empty and uncen^ tain, — of every vanity, of every shout of praise in thsn vacant air; of every wandering eye he begs its homagasB he wants these things; he wants lliem for happincsSM he wants them to satisfy the craving soul ; and yet bafl imagines that he is very fortunate : he accounts himiiS self wise, or great, or honourable, or rich, increased ^afl goods, and in need of nothing. The infatuation of then inebriate man, who is elated and gay, just when hen ought to be most depressed and sad, we very we^l understand. But it is just as true of every man tliat iCH intoxicated by any of his senses or passions, by wealtl^^ or honour, or pleasure, that he is infatuated — that Ittffl has abjured reason. -M What clearer dictate of reason is ihei-e than teV offender, every sensualist, every avaricious man, sacrU.4 iices the greater good — the happiness of virtue and I piety — for the lesser good, which he finds in his I senses or in the perishing world. Nor is this th» I strongest view of the case. He sacrifices the greateC'l for the less, without any necessity for it. He mightlJ have both. He gives up heaven for earth, when, itfM . the beat sense, he might, I repeat, have both. A puHM I mind can derive more enjoyment from this world, an^l ^fi-om the senses, than an impure mind. This U ti;U|fl 50 OIBCOUSSR UI. «!van of the lowpst senses. But their are other stma besides thc^e; aud the pleasures of the efncure an fur from equalling, even in iotmsity, those nrhivh |)iet\ dravvB from the glories of vision and the toelodies of Konnd, — -ministers as they are of thoughts and feeling timt swell far beyond the measure of all worldly joy. Tile loi-e of happiness might properly be treated ti a separate part of our nature ; and I had intended, in- deed, to )ipeak of it distinctly, — to speak of the gaeagn and miserable provision which unholy grati&catioD makes for it, and yet more of the cruel wrong which i^ done lo this eager and craving love of happiaesa. But as I have fallen on this topic, and find the ^lace thai belongs to me diminishing, I must uontent myself with a single suggestion. What bad man ever desired that hh child should be like himself? Vice is said to wear an alluring a^Mvl, and many u heedless youth, alas ! rushes into its em- braces for happiness ; but what vicious man, what cor- rupt and dissolute man, ever desired that his eiiild should walk in his steps? And what a testimony i« this — what a clear and disinterested testimony to llie unhappinesa of a sinfiil course ! Ves, it is the bad man thai often feels an interest about the. nrtuo of others, beyond all, perhaps, that good men feel ; fieels an intensity, an agony of desire for his childreti, that ihey may be brought up virluously — that they tiuy nsver, never be such as he is ! How truly, and with what striking emphasis, did the venei'able Cranmer reply, when told that a certain man bad cheated him, — " no, he has clteated him- srif," Every bad man, ever}' dishonest man, ener^ corrupt man, cheats himself of a good, far dearertliHii DISCOUKSE III 511 any adrantage that he Bbtaina over his neighbour. Others he may injure, abuse, and delude; but another thing is true, though commonly forgotten, and that that he deludes himself, abuses himself, inji self, more ihan he does all other men. In the nest place, sin does a wrong to conscience. There is a conscience in every man, which is as tndy !i part of his nature as reason or memory. The offen- der against this, therefore, violates no unknown law, Bor impracticable rule. From the very teaching oi his nature he knows what is right, and he knows thafi he can do it ; and lus verj' nature, therefore, insti of furnishing him with apologies for wilful wroni holds him inexcusable. Inexcusable, I am aware, a strong word ; and when I have looked at manldnd,'| and seen the ways in which they are instructed, edu- cated, and influenced, I have been disposed to feel ay if there were palliations. But on the other hand, when I consider how strong is the voice of nature in a man, how sharp anj ^ %*=^|l 54 DisoovRflv nr* yes, of sacrificing all the transoendant smd boondleBS creation of God in his nature to one smgle nerfe «f his perishing frame. The brightest e«miation of Qai, a flame from the everlasting altar burns within lun ; and he voluntarily spreads over it a flesblj veil — afwl of appetites — a veil of thick darkness ; and' if from its awful folds one beam of the holy and insuflfepable light within breaks forth, he closes his eyBS, asd qu'ckly spreads another covering of wilful delusicm over it, and utterly refuses to see that Kght, though it flashes upon him from the shrine of the Divinity. There is, indeed, a peculiarity in the sensuality of a man, distinguishing it from the sensual gratification of which an animal is capable, and which many mefi are exalted above the brutes only to turn to the basest uses. The sensual pleasures of a human being derive a quality from the mind. They are probably more intense, through the co-operating action of the mind. The appetite of hunger or thirst, for instance, is doubt* less the same in both animal and man, and it^ gratifi^ cation the same in kind; but the mind communicates to it a greater intensity. To a certain extent this is unquestionably natural and lawful. But the mind, finding that it has this power, and that by absorption in sense, by gloating over its objects, it can for a time add something to their enjoyment, — the mind^ I say, surrenders itself to the base and ignoble ministry. The angel in man does homage to the brute in man. Reason toils for sense; the imagination panders for appetite ; and even the conscience — that no faculty may be left undebased — the divine conscience strires to spread around the loathsome forms of voluptuous- ness a haze of moral beauty— calling intoxication 55 Ubuaiasnij and refelLiiig good fellowship, and dig- itfyini; every species of indulgence with, some (lamf; f that is holy. Of what, again, is the miser, and of what is eseq f inordinately covetous man, guilty ? Conversant a^ I may be with everj- species of trade and traffic, there ii one kind of barter coming yet nearer to his iotereat^J L but of which, perchance, he lias never thought. I barters virtue for gain. That is the stupendous moral^ which he is engaged. Tlie very attribute^J I of tlie mind are made a part of the stock in the awfutk^d trade of avarice. And if its account-book were t state tnily the whole of every transaction, it would. , aftm stand thus : " Gained, my hundreds or my thou^J I Muds; lost, the rectitude and peace of my conscience ^1 a I "Gained, a great bargain, driven bard; lost, in tli^J^ same proportion, the generosity and kindness of 015 B affections." "Credit" — and what strife is there f tite clods of earth, to contract those faculties th9k< J spread themselves out beyond the world, even t{f(l itt&iily — to contract them to worldly trifles— k pitiable ; it is something to mouru awl to weep ovai;^! ! who sits down in a dungeon which another 1 ide, has not such cause to bewail hitoaeVi a& W <« 96 DISOOURSE III. aits down in the dungeon which he has thus made for hhnself. Poverty and destitution are sad things t but there is no such poverty, there is no such destitution as that of a covetous and worldly heart. Poverty is a sad thing ; but there is no man so poor as lie whob poor in his affections and virtues. Many a house is full, where the mind is unfurnished and the beait is empty; and no hovel of mere penury ever ou^t to be so sad as that house. Behold, it is left desolate^— to the immortal it is left desolate, as the chambers of death. Death 1.9 there indeed ; and it is the death of the soul ! But not to dwell longer upon particular forms of evil — of what, let us ask, is the man guilty ? Who Is it that is thus guilty ? To say that he is noble in his nature has been sometimes thought a dangerousi-laxity of doctrine, a proud assumption of merit, ** a flattering unction" laid to the soul. But what kind of flattery is it to say to a man, ** you were made but little lower than the angels ; you might have been rising to the state of angels, and you have made — what have yda made yourself? what you are — a slave to the world — a slave to sense — a slave to masters baser than Nature made them — ^to vitiated sense, and a corrupt and vain world !" Alas ! the irony implied in such flattery as this is not needed to add poignancy to convicrtion. Boundless capacities shrunk to worse than infkntile imbecility! immortal faculties made toilers for the vanities of a moment! a glorious nature sunk to a will- ing fellowship with evil ! — alas! it needs no exaggera- tion, but only simple statement, to make this a sad atid afflicting case. Ill enough had it been for us if we had been made a depraved and degraded race ; well DISCOURSE III, StM inight the world even then hace sat down in sackvl -doth and sorrow, though repentance could properlyl have made no part of its sorrow. But ill is it indeet^fl if we have made oursetvex the sinful and unhapp]|fl beings that we are; if we have given ourselves ths'fl wounds which have hrougbt languishmetit, and de^l bility, and distress upon lis 1 What keen regret and. I 'Temorse would any one of us feet, if in a fit of passioi^ fl he had destroyed his own right arm, or had implanted I . jn it a hngering wound 1 And yet this, and this laat ■ Mpecially, is what every offender does to some faculty ■ Vf his nature. *l But this is tiot all. Ul enough hud it been for uifl if we had wrought out evil from nothing — If. from «■ mture negative and indifferent to the result, we ha4-l iWought forth the fruits of guilt and misery. But if we I ijiave wronged, if we have wrested from its true biasri M nature made for heavenly ends ; if it was all beau* I i^ful in God's design and in our capacity, and we havel (^pade it all base, so that human nature, alas ! Is but tbfefl ll^'Word of the siitirist, and u mark for the scornei- ; i(M M|3i»ctia&s that might have been sweet and pure almost I gfi the thoughts of angels, hav¥ been soured, and epir I lettered, and turned to wrath, even in the homes i^'l ij^URian kindness ; if the very senses have been brutal-- fl !l, and degr.ided, and changed from ministers of J (pleasure to inflicters of pain; and yet more, if all thefl thread authority of reason has been denied, and all thfti |«iblinie sunetity of conscience has been set at naughtl ^p this downward course ; and vet once more, if alt I Mfaeae things — not chimerical, not visionary— are actu- I ^Ijr witnessed, are matters of history In ten thousan^l (glwellings around us, — :vh ! if ihey are actually exist-^ 58 DiscoiTRsB m« mgf my bretl»en> in you and in me ; — and, finally, if uniting together, tbese causes of depravation have spread a flood of misery over the world; and there are sorrows, and sighings, and tears in all the habita- tions of men, all proceeding from this one cause; then, I say, shall penitence be thought a strange and uncalled-for emotion? Shall it be thought strange that the first great demand of the gospel should be for repentance ? Shall it be thought strange that a man should sit down and weep bitterly for his sins — so strange that hk aequaintances shall ask, '* what hath he done?" or shall conclude that he is going mad with fanaticism, or is on the point of losing his reason ? No, truly ; the dread infatuation is on the part of those who weep not! It is the negligent world that is fanatical and frantic, in the pursuit of unholy indulgences and unsatisfying pleasures. It is such a world refusing to weep over its sins and miseries that is fatally deranged. Repentance, my brethren! shall it be thought a virtue difiicult of exercise? What can the world sorrow for, if not for the cause of all sorrow? What is to awaken grief, if not guilt and shame? Where shall the human heart pour out its tears, if not on those de- solations which have been of its own creating ? How fitly is it written, and in language none too strong, that '* the sacrifices of God are a broken luid contrite heart." And how encouragingly is it written also — " a broken and ccmtrite heart thou wilt not des- pise." " Oh, Israel !" saith again the sacred word, — " Oh, Israel ! thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine help found/* 'srf iloiin'Tiq-ifp 1a DISCOURSE IV. ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH BEUQION, TO B KD DSKFOL, SHOULD ttAVE TO HUMAN NATURE. M Tu.it. 3. A bruised reed shall lie nut hrea.1i, and t! smoking flax shall he not quench. This was spoken by prophecy of our Saviour, i is commonly considered as one of the many pa^sa which either predgur^ or describe the considerate an^ gracious adaptation of his religion to the wante a aesscB of human nature. This adaptution < OhrisdaTUty to the wants of the mind, is, indeed,, topic that has been much and very Justly insisted n a ait evidenw! of its tinith, I wi»h, however, in the present discourse, to plaofi this subject before you in a light somewhat differei^ perhaps, from that in which it has usually been v K Christianity is suited to the wants of our aatui;^,' itfl iipVoper to consider wliat our nature needs. I sliiii therefore in the following discourse give coustderablii prominence to this inquiry. The wants of our nature arious. I >ihall undertake to show in several esh isp«cts what a religion that is adapted to these wantail fhoald be. In the same connexion I shall iindertalu B show that Christianily is such a religion. 60 DISCOUASE IV. This course of inquiry, I believe, will elicit some just views of religious truth, and will enable us to judge whether our own views of it are just. My object in it is to present some temperate and comprehensive views of religion^ which shall be seen at once to meet the necessities of our nature, and to accord with the spirit of the Christian religion. Nothing, it would seem, could be more obvioiis than that a rehgion for human beings should be suited to human beings ; not to angels, nor to demons ; not to a fictitious order of creatures ; not to the inhabitants of some other world; but to men — to men of this world, of this state and situation in which we are placed, of this nature which is given us, — to men, with all their passions and affections warm and alive, and all their weaknesses, and wants and fears about them. And yet, evident and reasonable as all this is, nothing has been more common than for religion to fail of this very adaptation. Sometimes it has been made a quality all softness, all mercy and gentleness — some- thing joyous and cheering, light and easy, as if it were designed for angels. At others it has been clothed with features as dark and malignant as if it belonged to fiends rather than to men. In no remote period it has laid penances on men, as if their sinews a^^d nerves were like the mails of steel which they wore in those days : while the same religion, with strange inconsistency, lifted up the reins to their passions, as if it had been the age of stoicism, instead of being the age of chivalry. Alas ! how little has there been in the religions of past ages — how little in the preva- lent forms even of the Christian religion — ^to draw out, to expand, and brighten the noble faculties of our 1 and ^^ DISCOUHSK IV. &l* nature ! How many of the beEHitiful fruits of humaa' laSection have withered away under the cold aiKf' tlighling touch of a scholastic and stern theology'! ■How many fountains of joy in the human heart hav#( been sealed and closed up for ever by the iron hand of A gloomy superstition! How many bright spirits — how ntany comely and noble natures — have been niirred and crushed by the artificial, the crude, and ough deahng of religious freozy and fanaticism! It is suitable, then — it is expedient — to consii the adaptation which rehginn, kt be true and useful^ ought to have to human nature. It may serve to cor- rect errors. It may serve to guide those who are asking what ideas of religion they are to entertain ; what Bentimenis they are lo embrace ; what conduct In pursue. ' In entering upon this subject, let me offer one lead- iag observatioD, and aHerwards proceed to some par- ticulars. ' I. I say, then, in the first place, that religion should be adapted to our whole nature. It should remember it we have understandings ; and it should be a itional religion. It should remember that we have Jeelings ; and it should be an earnest and fervent reli- [jon. It should remember that our leehngs revolt at iolence, and are all alive to Tenderness, and it should K gentle, ready to entreat, and full of mercy. It luld remember too that our feehnga naturally lean » self-indulgence, and it should be, in its gentleness. itrictand solemn. It should, in a due proportion, ad- Ireas all our faculties. Most of the erroneous forms of religious sentimenfrj iiat prevail in the Christian world, have arisen fi tile predominaRfe thftt has been pven to wme cw part [ dnell tipon tliis last point a moment. It ia nofd common to hear it said that excitement is a very k tiling, and that true religion is calm. And yel would seem as if, by others, repose was regardiedu deadly to the soid, and as if the only safety lay i^ tremendous agitation. IV'ow what saith our natuM for the being that is the very subject of this vaiy discipline may surely be allowed to speak— saith our nature to these different advisers? It siM IDISCOUBHK IV. ^V^^l I think, that both are, to a certain extent, wrong, aiid|^^| both, to a certain extent, right. That is to aay, hunun.^^l nature reauires, in their due proportion, both txcite- iplex lused nee4M .ihatT^H led. n in J be ^^ •ue ich » nature requires, in their due proportion, both txcite- Dient and tranquillity. Our minds need a complt and blended influence; need to be at once aroused, and chastened, to be at the same time quickened subdued ; need to be ini|)elled, and yet guided 10 be humbled, no doubt, and that deeply, but not that oniy, as it seems to be commonly thought — humbled, I say, and yet supported ,■- need to be bowed down in humility, and yet strengthened in trust ; need to be nerved to endurance at one lime, and, at another, be transported with joy. Let religion — let the reasoi able and gracious doctrines of Jesus Christ — cote us with these adaptations ; generous, to expand affections ; strict, to restrain our passions ; plastic, mould our temper ; strong, ay, strong to control will. Let rehgion be thus welcomed to every true principle and passion of our nature. Let it touch all the springs of intellectual and of moral life. Let it penetrate to every hidden recess of the soul, bring forth all its powers, and enlighten, inspire, per- iiect them, hardly need say, that the Christian religi Adapted to our whole nature. Its evidences address. Themselves to our sober judgmenl. Its precepts com- mend themselves to our consciences. It imparts light to our understandings, and fervour to our aflfecfiona. 11 speaks gently to our repentance ; but terribly to iflor disobedience. It really does that for us which religion should do. It does arouse and chasten, [t|uicken and subdue, impel and guide, humble and yet ipport : it arms us with fortilude, and it transports^ fi4 DISCOURSE IV. US with joy. It id profitable for the life that now is, and for that which is to come. TI. But I must pass now, to observe that there are more particular adaptations which religion should have, and which the gospel actually has, to the con* dition of human nature, and to the various degrees of its improvement. One of the circumstances of our moral condition is danger. Religion, then, should be a guardian, and a vigilant guardian ; and let us be assured that the gos- pel is such. Such emphatically do we read. If we cannot bear a religion that admonishes us» watches over us, warns us, restrains us, let us be assured that we cannot bear a religion that will save us. Religion should be the keeper of the soul ; and without such a keeper, in the slow and undermining process of temp- tation, or amidst the sudden and strong assaults of passion, it will be overcome and lost. Again, the human condition is one of weakness. There are weak points where religion should be sta- tioned to support and strengthen us. Points, did I say? Are we not encompassed with weakness ? Where, in the whole circle of our spiritual interests and affec- tions, are we not exposed and vulnerable ? Where have we not need to set up the barriers of habit, and to build the strongest defences with which resolutions and vows and prayers can surround us ? Where, and wherein, I ask again, is any man safe ? What virtue of any man is secure from frailty ? What strong pur- pose of his is not liable to failure ? What affection of his heart can say, *' I have strength, I am established, and nothing: can move me." How weak is man in trouble, in perplexity, in doubt — how weak in afflic* DISCOURSE IV. ^Hnn, or tvhen sickness bows the Epirit, or when apH-J ^^roacbing death is iinloosiDg all thf- bands of his prii ■ and self-reliance ! And whose spirit does not some-^ times faint under its inlriniiic weakness, under its n live frailty, and the burden and prei>3ureof itaneceswt'l ties? Religion thon should bring supply, and suppor^fl and strength to the soul ; and the gospel does bring ■ supply, and sujjport, and strength. Audit thus meets ■ a universal want. Every mind wants the slabiUtjl J which principle gives ; wants the comfort which piebj J gives; wants it continually, in all the varying experi(|l ence of life. I have said, also, that religion should be adaptd . to the Tarious degrees of mental improvement, and j ■ may add, to the diversities of temperament. No4^ ■ tilere are sluggish natures that need to be arousei^ I ftll the machinery of spiritual terror can scarce IM' J I too much to aroui^e some persons, though it may iof { I deed be very improperly applied. But on the con-r-l Ltrary, there are minds so excitable and sensitive, thdJ Ktvligion should come to them with all its sobering anA^ ^(l^anqiiilliziiig influence. In how many caries do ffBi'l ^HRtness this ! How niany are there whose minds afe | HKJiilUd or etupifled by denunciation ! How many a ^■Mfpelled by severity, or crushed by a weight of fealr I Hfttad aiLtiety! How many such are there that need* ^Htelping hand to be stretched out to them ; that need . H^ be raised, and soothed, and comforted ; ihat need i Bab be won with gentleness, and cheered with pro* | ^Hiises ! The gospel has terrors, indeed, but it is nc^ I Hwdl terror ; and its most awfiil rebukes soften inw-^ ^hiiy over the fearful, the dejected, the anxious, and ^^^Sat the most stiiking circunwtance, ~\b \W %&a:Mfl W DIBCOURSli IV^' lion of religion to llie ditTerent deg;ree9 of mental im- prorement, is its character, as supplying not merely the general necessities, but the conscious wanta of tbsl. mind. Tbere may be some who have never bsfc conscious of these intrinsic wants, though thej spring* from hitman nature, and must be Rooner or later frif. To the very young, or to the unreflecting, religion can be scarcely anything more, perhaps, tlian direction, It says, " do this, and do that ; and refrain from this gratification, and beware of that danger." It is chiefly a set of rules and precepts to them. Speak to them of religion as the granil resort of the mind, — as that which meets its inward necessities, supplies its deep- felt wants, fills its capacious desires, — and they do not wrfl understand you, or they do not imderstand why this view of the subject should be so interesting to you. But another mind shall be bound to the gospel by nothing so much as by its wants. It craves some- thing thus vast, glorious, infinite, and eternal. It sought — sought long, perhaps, and anxiously — for something thus satislying; and it has found what it long and painfully sought, in the teachings of Jeans — in the love of God — in that world of spiritual thou^ts and objects which tlic great teacher has opened — in tliat solemn and majestic vision of immortaUty which he has brought to light. To such a religion *he soul clings with a peace and satisfaction never to be ex- pressed — never to be uttered. It says, " to wham shall I go — to whom shall I go ? thou, O blessed reU- gion, rainisler and messenger from heaven ! — thou hast the words of eternal life, of eternal joy !" The language which proclaims the sufficiency of religion, which sets forth the attraction and the greatness of it, as supplyiag the great iiilelVecluaV \vau\., ia na cbi- inerical language; it is not merely a tumiliar '. guage; but it is intimate with the deepest and dearest feelings of the heart In descending to the more specific applications the principle of religion to human nature, I must c( tent myself, for ihe present, with one further observasl tion ; and that is, that it meets aud mingles with the varieties of natural temperament and disposition. Religion should not propose to break up all the di- versities of individual character ; and Christianity does not propose this. It did not propose this even when it first broke upon the world with manifestation ant miracle. It allowed the rash and forward Pet«r, tl timid and doubting Thomas, the mild and nfTectionat Joha, the resolute and fervent Paul, still to retain their peculiarities of character. The y of l to the teachings of our Saviour. He did nol address one passion or part of our nature alone, or 70 DISCOUBSE IV. chiefly. There was no one manner of address ; and we feel snre as we read, that there was no one tcme. He did not confine himself to any one class of subjects. He was not always speaking of death, nor of judg- ment, nor of eternity ; frequently and solemnly as he spoke of them. He was not always q>eaking of the state of the sinner, nor of repentance and the new heart ; though on these subjects too he delivered kis solemn message. There was a varied adaptation, in his discourses, to every condition of mind^ and every duty of life, and every situation in which his hearers were placed. Neither did the preaching of our Sa- viour possess, exclusively, any one moral complexion. It was not terror only, nor promise only ; it was sot, exclusively, severity nor gentleness; but it waseaefa one of them in its place, and all of them always sub- dued to the tone of perfect sobriety. At one time we hear him saying, with lofty self-respect, *' neither tell I you by what authority I do these things :" — at another, with all the majesty of the Son of God, we hear him, in reply to the fatal question of the judgment-hall, " Art thou the Christ ?"■— we hear him say, '^ I am; and hereafter ye shall see the Son of Man seated on the throne of power, and coming in the clouds of heavea." But it is the same* voice that says, " come unto me, aU ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will givt you rest ; take my yoke, which is easy, and my burden, which is light, and ye shall find rest to your souk." At one time he speaks in the language of terror, and says, " fear not them who, after that they have Jkilled the body, have no more that they can do; but fear Him who is able to cast both soul and body into hell ; yea, I say unto you, fear him." But at anothw tame DISCOURSE IV. 71 I the awful admonisher breaks out ioto the pathetk J CKclamation, " Oh ! Jerusalem, Jerusalem 1 how ofCan 1 nciuld I have gathered your children, even as a hea J gathereth her brood under her wings, but ye would'l not," If I might be permitted now, to add a suggestion of J an advisory nature, it would be in the languai apOBtle^ " let your moiJej'aiion be known to all men."'^ The true rehgion, the true excellence of character, requires that we should hold all the principles and af- focdons of our nature in a due sub oi'di nation and pro- portion to each other ; that we should subdue all th$^ J (Jamoring voices of passion and desire, of fear a hiipe, of joy and sorrow, lo complete harmony ; we should regard and cultivate our nature a* a it Almost all error is some truth carried to excess, t dimiaished from its proper magnitude. Almost a Bin is some good or useful principle, suffered to i immoderate and ungovernable, or suppressed denied its proper influence and action. Let, tliei .^Mderation be a leading trait of our virtue and piet;^A ja^his is not dulness. Nothing is farther from dulnes^a ^hnd nothing, sui-ely, is more beautiful in character, to more touching, than to see a hvely and hitenee .Ihnsibility controlled by the judgment; strong passions .MiMued and softened by reflection; and, on the other ,d, to fiod a vigorous, clear, and manly undwstand- Sce, quickened by a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. V^othing is more wise or -more admirable in action than to be resolute and yet calm, earnest and yet self-possessed, decideil and yet modest; to contend ^r truth and right with meekness and charity; to go forward in a good cause, without pretension, to retire with dignity; to give witWoul -gViie, wwS. v>i 72 DisrouRSK IV. withhold witliout meanness; to rejoice with mo- (lenition, and to suffer with patience. And nothing, I may n(h1, was more remarkable in the character of our Saviour than this perfect sobriety^ consistency, self-control. This, therefore, is the i)erfection of character. This will always be found, I believe, to be a late stage in the progress of religious worth from its first beginnings. It is comparatively easy to be one thing and that alone; to be all zeal, or all reasoning ; all faith, or all action ; all rapture, or all chilling and captious fault-finding. Here novices begin. Thus far they may easily go. Thus far men may go, whose character is the result of temperament, and not of culture ; of headlong pro- pensity, and not of careful and conscientious discipline. It is easy for the bruised reed to be broken. It is easy for the smoking flax to be quenched. It is easy to deal rashly and rudely with the matters of religious and virtuous experience — to make a hasty eflTort, to have a paroxysm of emotion, to give way to a feverish and transient feeling, and then to smother and quench all the rising purposes of a better life. But true religion comes to us with a wiser and more considerate adap- tation, — to sustain and strengthen the bruised reed of human weakness ; to fan the rising flame of virtuous and holy purposes : it comes to revive our failing cou- rage, to restrain our wayward passions. It will not suffer us to go on with our fluctuations and our fan- cies ; with our transient excitements and momentary struggles. It will exert a more abiding, a more ra- tional influence. It will make us more faithful and per- severing. It will lay its hand on the very energies of our nature, and will take the lead and control the form- ing and perfecting of them. May we find it^ real and DISCOURSE IV. 73' s power '. May it lead us in the true, the firm, 3 brightening path of the just, till it brings us to the jerfect day ! Oh ! my brethren, wc sin against our own peace, vi fiave no mercy upon ourselves, when we neglect such a religion as this. It is the only wisdom, the only sound-1 iieas, the only consislency and harmony of character^:^ the only peace and blessedness of mind. We should not have our distressing doubts and fears, we should not be so subject aa we are to the distracting influences of passion or of the world without us, if we had , yielded our hearts wholly to the spirit and religion o Jesus, It is a religion adapted to us all. To i affection, to every state of mind, troubled or joyous, t every period of life, it would impart the very influenct that we need. How surely would it guide our youth,.J and how would it temper, and soften, and sanctify a llie fervours of youllifiil affection ! How well would i< support our age, making it youthful again with thi fervent hope of immortality ! How would it lead u^ too, in all the paths of earthly care, and business, ant' labour, turning the brief and weary courses of worldly^ toil into the ways that are everlasting *. How faithfulW and how calmly would it conduct us to the everlasting abodes ! And how well, in fine, does he, of whom it' was prophesied that he should not break the bruised reed nor quench the smoking flax — how well does he 'meet that gracious character, when he says — shall we not listen to him? — "Come unto me, all ye that labour j and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest : lake mya yoke, which is easy, and my burdei which i) ligW^I , for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ycfl I 'shall find rest unto your souls.' DISCOURSE V. OF. APPKil. OF RELIGtOS TO HITMAN NATURF. 'Pbotkhbs vin. 4. Ui to you, O men. I call ; atiA my voice » 9 the sons oFmen. ' Tub appeal of religion to human nature, the, doep ■fisdom of its instructions to ihe human heart, the »»■ guage of power and of cheering with which it is fitted , to address the inmost soul of man, is never to be un- derstood, perhaps, till our nature is exalted far beygml its present meaaure. When the voice of wisdom aw purity shall find an inwaid wisdom and purity to which it can speak, it will be received with a welcome and gladness, with a joy beyond all other joy, such asJw tongue of eloquence has ever expressed, nor the heart of worldly sensibility ever yet conceived. It is, ihwe- foie, with the most unfeigned diffidence, with the n»sl distinct consciousness that my present labour must be incipieut and imperfect, that I enter upon this great thenio-^tho apjieal of reUgion to human nature. What ought it to be ? What has it been ? The* arc Ihe iac,uirws which I shall pursue. Xor shaU attoi«l>l (o t^'vp tUca altogether sej^rate in ihp dia r,i*»io»: wuw ball, llw defects and the duties of rdi ^,i^ in.irurt««, may ofton be best e:ihibited und. ' — >»*a«fd.^rse. NmborshaU I labour DISCOURSE V. TO I speak of religion under tliat abstract and figurative character with which wisdom h personified in the corv text, though that may be occasionally convenient ; but whether it be the language of individual reason or conscience ; whetlier it be the voice of the parent or of the preacher ; whether it be the language of forms or of institutions, I would consider how religion has appealed, and how it ought to have appealed, to human nature. The topics of discourse under wliich I shall pursing J these inquiries, are the following : — In whai charaeltt^ should religion address us ?~ — to uthat in us shoulil it speak ? — and how should it deliver its tnessagelS I That is to say — the substance, the subject, and tin spirit of the appeal, are the topics of our inquiry, cannot, of course, pursue these inquiries beyond t '^int to which the immediate object of my discourse^ flrill carry them ; and I am willing to designate thaf I |>oint at once, by saying that the questions are, whethefd the character in which rehgion is to appeal to us b moral or not ; whether 1 hat in us to which it chiefijP| appeals should be the noblest or the basest part of oi nature ; and finally, whether the manner and spirit o its appeal should be that of confidence or distrust, i fiiendship or hatred. I. And with regard to the first question, the answBQ 1 I ^ course, is, that the character in which religion should | ftttddress us is purely moral. As a moral principle, as I aprinciple of rectitude, it must speuk to us. Institu- f lions, rites, commands, threatenings, promises — all I Ibrms of appeal must contain this essence ; tliey must I be moral ; they must be holy. It may be thought strange that I should n 78 niSCODRSB «rt a point so obvimis, but let me crave your patience What is tlie c«itre, the first priniriple, the essence, of ill! that Ib moral, of all that is holy ? 1 answer, ith goodnpss. This is the primary element of all virtue. Excellence, rectitude, righteousness, every virtue, every grace, is but a modification of the one essentiah all-embracing principle of love. This is strictJy, me- taphysically true : it is the result of the most severe philosophical analysis. It is also the truth of scnp- ture. The character of supreme perfection is sum- med up in this one attribute, " God is love." This is the very glory of God. For when an ancient aervant desired to " see his glory,"' the answer to the prayer was, that " he caused all his goodness to pass before him." The character, then, in which religion should ap- peal to human nature, is that of simple and essential goodness. This, the moral nature of man is made to understand and to feel; and nothing else but this. This character, doubtless, has various expressions. Sometimes it takes the forms of command and threat- ening; but still these must speak in the name of good- ness. If command and threatening stand up to speak for themselves — alone—dissociated from that love which gives them all their moral character— then, I say that the moral natiire of man cannot receive their message. A brute can receive that ; a dog or a horse can yield to mere command or menace. But the moral nature can yield to nothing which is not moral ; and that which gives morality to every precept and warning is the goodness which is breathed into them. Divest them of this, and they are not even religious. Nor are those persons religious who pay obedience to DISCOURSE V. ^1 I CDoannnd, as command, and witliout any considdra^ I lion of its moral nature, of the intrinsic and esscntiii) | sanction which goodness bestows on the command. , The \-oice of religion, then, must be as the voice goodness. Conceive of everything good and lovelj^ J of everything morally excellent and admirable, q£ f everything glorious and godlike, and when these sp ea\c f to you, know that religion speaks to you. WhethwT I that voice comes from the page of genius, or from t^ I record of heroic and heavenly virtue, or from its livi^ f presence and example, or from the bosom of sileoj; I tpo^erie, the innermost sanctuary of meditation-ri* I whatever of holy and beautiful speaks to you, aiiif J 4farough what medium soever it comes, it is the voi^J I of religion. All excellence, in other words, is n But here we meet witii what seems to me — and httM I tetist I denominate it, in justice to my own appreheit* 1 I stupendous error ; an error, prevalent,, 'l 1 ' Itehcve, and yet fatal, so far as it goes, to all religioua 1 emotion. All excellence, I said, is religioi). But tift f great error is, that in the popidar apprehension the^a I 4hings are not identified. In other words, rehgioii and i I jgoodoees 'are not identified in the general mind : thejr | Kate not held by most men to be the same thing. 'This 1 Bferror, I say, if it exist, is fatal to genuine religious emo- I K^on, becaixse men cannot heartily love, as a moral | 1 .^trajity, anything which is not, to them, goodness. ' - to state this position as a simple truism, t}tey j ■^tannot love anything which ia Qot, to them, 1dv9« j I Vness. ' Now I am willing, nay, I earnestly wish, that witb I J regard to the real nature of religion there should b^ | Wt&e utmost discrimination ; and I will soon speak tQ J i 7S DISCOURSE ▼. that point. But, I say, Tor the present — I say, again, that religion is made, intrinsically and altogether, a different thing from what is commonly re^rded as loveliness of character, and therpfore that it speaks to men, speaks to human nature, not as goodness, but as some other thing. For proof of tliis, I ask you, first, to look at that phraseology by which religion ia commonly described, and to compare it with the language by which niai express those lovfly qualities that they most admire. See, then, how lliey express their admiralton. You hear them speak of one who is amiable, lovely, fasci- nating ; of one who is honourable, upright, generous. )'ou hear them speak of a good parent, of an aAec- tionate child, of a worthy citizen, of an obliging neigh- bour, of a kind and faithful friend, of a man whom they emphatically call " a noble man ;" and you observe a fervour of language and a glow of pleasure while these things are said; a kindling animation in the tone and the countenance, which inspires you with a kin- dred sympathy and delight. But mark, now, with how different a language and manner the qualities of reli- gion are described, The votary of religion is said to be very " serious," perhaps, but ivith a look and tone as if a much worse thing were stated ; or you hear it said of him that he is a " pious man," or, he is •' a vewy experienced person," or, he ia " a Christian if ewp there was one :" but it seems, even when the reli^oiw themselves say all this, as if it were an extorted and cold homage ; as if religion were something very proper, indeed, very safe, perhaps, but not very agree- able, certainly ; there is no glow, there is no anima- tion, and there is generally no sympathy. DISCOOBSK V, 7^M In fiirtlier proof that religion is Qot ideatifie J witli the beautiful and admirable in character, I might turn from the language ia conungn use to actual experi-^^ eBce. Is religion, I ask — not the religion of poetr ' but that which exists in the actual conceptions of n the religion of professors, the reUgion that is commonl taught from our pulpits — is it usually regarded as i loveliest attribute of the human character? youi! minds glow with the love of excellence, when yiw weep over the examples of goodness, is this exceUer is this goodness which you admire, religion ? Consi^ the books of fiction, open the pages of history, i to the stores of our classical literature, and say, i religioiia man of our times appears in them at all ; if, when lie docs appear in them, it is he that chlei draws your affection ? Say, rather, if it is not somi^ personage, whether of a real or fictitious tale, that jg destitute of every distinctive quality of the popular n ligion, who kindles your enthusiasm ? So true it that many who have held the prevailing ideas of redf^ giott, have regarded, and on their principles bavft'l justly regarded, the literature of taste and of fiction ai^ ] eneiof the most insidious temptations that could befall f ttiem. No, I repeat, the images of loveliness that 4t<'ell in the general mind, whether of writers op I Upaders, have not been the images of religion. Aoii J t)iua it has happened, that the men of taste, and ($M Ar IWely and ardent sensibility, have by no mearuiJ jridded their proportion of votaries lo 'religion. Thai '1, the gloomy, the sick, the aged have been relJi T l^us ; not. — i. e. not to the same extent — the youi^^'i Biid the joyous ini their first admiration and their first 4ove; not the intelleetual and refined in the enthusiasiq, WS o\ soon UBiOR of'theiriiMliDgs and in the gloij of jt^eici. tians,--''' ■-. ■ ,■■.-..,., 1.^,, i^,-. But lot me appeal once more to cxperieaee. J Mt then—do you love religion? 1 ask you, I ask snyoH who will enterlaiii the question — do you love religiair! Doen the very ivord carry a sound that k agreeable, delightful to you ? Does it stand for Komethiog altrac tive and lovely ? Are the terms that describe religion- grace, holiness, repentance, faith, godliness — aret^ey invested with a charm to your heart, to your iaiagiiu- tion, to your whole mind? Now, to this question I am sure that many would answer freely and decidedly, " No, religion is not a thing that we love. We <^aaiiel say that we lake that sort of interest in it. We do not profess to be religious, and — honestly — we do not wish to he." What ! I might answer in return — do yoit love nothing that is good ? Is there nothing in charac- ter, nothing in attribute, no abstract charm, that you love? "Far otherwise," would be the reply. '-There are many persons that we love : there are many cha- racters in history, in biography, in romance, thataiv delightful lo us ; they are so noble, so beautiful." < How different then, do we not see, are tlie ideoa of religion from the images of loveliness that dwell ia many minds ! They are actually the jromfl iu principle. All excellence has the same foundation. 'I'here are not, and cannot be, two dilTereiit and opposite kiod^ of rectitude. The moral nature of man, deranged, though It be, is not deranged so far as to admit thJa; and yet how evident is it, that religion is not ideutifictd with the excellence that men love ! Btit 1 hear it said, '■ The images of level dwell in the general mind are not indeed the iix ■•f religion, and ought not 1o be ; for they are i Uid would utterly mislead us." Grant, now, for I sake of argument, that ihis were true, and whoili would the admission benefit ? What would follotwl from the admission ? Why, this clearly; thatofbeio^l religious, no power or possibility is within hitrnaa reach. For men must love that which seems to theaS to be lovely. If that which seems to them to Ufl lowly is not religion — if religion is something elatj and somt^thing altogether different,— religion, it is cleaiM they cannot love : that is to say, on this hj'pothesHJl they cannot be religious ; they cannot, by any poss^d bility, but that in which all things are possible witlM God ; they cannot by any possibility that comon within the range of the powers and aflections thaf 1 God has given them. < J But it is not true that men's prevailing and consti*.* 1 tutional perceptions of moral beauty are false. It iiu not true, that is to say, that their sense of right aJidfl wrong is false ; that their conscience is a treacheroUiS and deceitful guide. It is not true; and yet, doubttftfl less, there is a discrimination to be made. Their perw. I ceptions may be, and undoubtedly often are, low and 1 inadequate, and marred with error. And therefore j when we use the words, excellent, admirable, lovely; I »4bere is danger that, to many, they will not mean I I «n that they ought to mean, that men's ideas of thes* 1 I qualities will not be as deep, and thorough, and strict; J ■ as they ought to he ; while, if we confine ourselves t» ■ Moch terras for religious qualities as serious, holy^l ■ ■pidly, the danger is that they will be just as erroneoiia/fl btesides being technical, barren, and uninteresting. ■ M ^ There is a difficulty, on this account, attending tlw; I ■ pa M n DISCOURSE V. IsJiguage of the pulpit, which every reflecting man, in the use of it. must have fe^ll. But tlie truth, amidst all these discriminations, 1 liold to be this ; that the uik* versal and constitutional jwrceptions of moral love^ ne8S which mankind entertain, are radical/t/ just. And therefore the only right doctrine an|IM iJl^jghest of our moral sentiments. -..fri.,; ( If Jl^k 84 oiscouRss v. There are sentiRienu ia our nature to jvhicli pow- rrfiil appeal can be luade, and lliey are, emphatically, its high and honourable scotiments. If you nished Ui speak in touea tliat should thrill through the very heart of the world, you would speak to these before all others. Almost all the richest poetry, the most admi- rable of the fine arts, the most popular and jxinerful eloquence in the world have addressed these moral and generous senliments of human nature. And 1 have observed it as quite remarkable, indeed — because it is an exception to the general language of the pulpil — that all the most eloquent preachers liave made great use of these very sentiments; they have appealed to the sense of beauty, to generosity and tenderness, to the natural conscience, the natural sense of eight and wrong, of honour and shame. To these, then, if you would move the humaa heart, you would apply yourself. You would appeal to the indignation at wrong, at oppression, or treachery, or raeaimess, or to the natural admiration which men feel for virtuous and noble deeds. If you woidd touch the most tender feehngs of the human heart, you would still make your appeal to these sentiments. You would represent innocence borne down and cnished by the arm of power ; you would describe patriotism labouring and dying for its country. Or you would describe a parent's love with all its cares and anxieties, and its self-sacrificing devotion. Or you would portray filial afiection watching over infir- mity, and relieving pain, and striving to pay back some- thing of the mighty debt of filial gratitude. Look abroad in the world, or look back upon the history of ages past, and ask for those on whom the enthusiasm DISCOURSE V. fand pride and affection of mea love to dwell. EvoKi from the shadows of the times gone by, their mightj their cherished forms, around which the halo of e lasting admiration dwells : and what are they ? hold the names of the generous, the philauthropii^ and the good — hehold, the voice of martyred bloot' on the altars of cruelty, or on the hills of freedom for ever rising from the earth — eternal testimonies bi^ the right and noble sentiments of mankind. To these, then, religion ought to have appealed In these sentiments it ought to have laid its foundt tion, and on these it ought to have built up its pow«H But has it done so ? Could it do so while it held liuman nature to he utterly depraved ? But there is a farther question. Can any religionya Christian or heathen, in fact, entirely discard liuma^l iflature? Certainly not. Must not every religion thai «peaks to man, speak to something human ? Undoubtt I «dly it must. What, then, is the end of all this inst human nature ? Has it not been, I ask, ti ;'dress the worst parts of it ? There has been no scni f\e about appealing to fear and anxiety ; but of thrfil entiments of admiration, of the sense of beauly in ti luroan heart, of the deep love for friends and kindred,! bat lingers there, religion has been afraid. Granl^f* ilideed, that these sentiments and aSections have been too low : it was the very business of religion to elevate them. But while it has failed to do this, in the degree it ought, how often has it spread a rack of torture our fear and solicitiide ! How often has it been i engine of superstition, an inflicter of penance, 4 inister of despondency aud gloom ; an ins Tective, as if it were framed on purpose, to ke« OB DISOOUBSB-Vi lUnm nil nituritl biioyancy, generosily, anU Liberal aspiration ! How often lias religion frawnetl upon the nature that it came to sai-e ; and instead of vtinning its conrtilenr<- and love, hm incurred its hatred ami Korn 1 and instead of having drawn it into tlic blosHfl path of |wace and trust, has driven it to indiSaiB infidelity, or dewprraTion ! And how lamentable is it [ Hereisanwldofl^ fillwl with entbusiaHm. filled with a thousand wwn and kindling alfej^tions; the breasts of millions are fired with admiration for generous and heroic virtue; and when the living representative of these virtues appears among ua — a Washington, or some illustrious compeer in excellence — crowded cities go forth to meet him, and nations lift up the voice of gratitude. How remarkable in the human character is this moral admiration ! What quickening thoughts does it awa. Itetl in solitude I What tears does it call forth, when we think of tlie prisons, the hospitals, the desolate dwellings, visited and cheered by the humane and merciful ! With what ecstasy does it swell the hiimaa lireast, when the vision of the patriotic, tlie patiently sufiering, the magnanimous and the good, passes be- fore us! In all this the inferior race has no share. TTiey can fear ; but esteem, veneration, the sense of moral loveliness, they know not. These are the pre- rogativBS of man — the gifts of Nature to him — the gifts of God, But how little, alas ! have they been calUd into the service of his religion ! How little have;tj energies been enlisted in that which is the great q cern of man ! And all this iathemoK to be lamented, bei^ those who are moat suscejitihle of feeling and o DISCOURSE V. efl thusiasm, most need the power and support of religion. The dull, the earthly, the children of sense, the mere fiodders of business, the mere votaries of gain, i 1, or may think they can do, without it. But hoi tnany beings are there, how many Bpirjls of a fiw mould, and of a loftier bearing, and of more intellec tual wants, who, when the novelty of life is worn o^M %hen the enthusiasm of youth has been freely lavished^.] %hen changes come on, when friends die, and then ts care and weariness and uolitude to press upon til beart — how many are there, then, that sigh bitterM nfter some better thing, atter something greater more permanent, and more satisfying! And how^ they need to be told that religion is that better thin^^" [hat it is not a. stranger to their wants and sorrows ; Uiat its voice is speaking and pleading within them, in tiie cry of their lamentation, and in the felt burthen of ^ Iheir necessity ; that religion is the home of their far^- B wandering desires ; the rest, the heaven, of their lon^ ■ troubled affections ! How do they need to hear the voice that says, " Unto you, men — men of care, and fear, and importunate desire — do I call ; and my voice is 10 the sons of men — to the children of frailty, and i trouble, and sorrow !" III. Let U3 now proceed to consider, in the thi I jplace, and finally, IVom the relation between the p thai speaks and the principle addressed, in what i ner the one should appeal to the other. The relation, then, between them, 1 say, is a • tion of amity. But let me explain. I do not ss course, that there is amity between right and wronf 3 do not say that there is amity between pure j s and what is evil in man. But that i 88 IM8COUMB Tv wrong and evil in man is the perrenioii ef aomeduog that is good and right. To that good and right I con- tend that religion should speak: to that it muit speaky for there is nothing else that can hear it. We do not appeal to abstractions of evil in man, hecaose there are no such things in him ; but we appeal to affections, to affections in which there is a mixture of good and evil. To the good, then, I say, we muit appeal, agcnnsi the evil. And every preacher of righteousness may boldly and fearlessly approach the human heart, in the confidence that, however it may defend itself against him, however high it may build ito battlements of habit and its towers of pride^ he has friends in the very citadel. I say, then, that religion should address the trot moral nature of man as its fnend> and not a» its enemy ; as its lawful subject, and not as an alien or a traitor ; and should address it, therefore^ with gene- rous and hopeful confidence,, and not with cold and repulsive distrust. What is it, in this nature, to which religion speaks ? To reason, to conscience, to the love of happiness, to the sense of the infinite and the beautiful, to aspirations after immortal good ; to natural sensibility, also, to the love of kindred and country and home. All these are in this nature, and they are all fitted to render obedience to religion. In this obedience they are satisfied^ and indeed they can never be satisfied without it. Admit, now, that these powers are ever so sadly perverted and corrupted, still no one maintains that they are destroyed. Neither is their testimony to what is right ever, in any case, utterly silenced. Should they not, then, be appealed to in a tone of confidence ? DISCOURSE V. fmm I Suppose, fof instance, to itluBtrate our observation, that simple reason were appealed to on any subject not roligious ; and suppose, to make the case parallel, the Reason ol' the man on that subject were Tcry mui perverted, that he was very much prejudiced ai misled. Yet would not the argument be directed his reason, as a principle actually existing ia hi as a priodple to be confided in and to be re from its error ? Would not every tone of the ar( meat and of the expostulation show confidence in principle addressed I Oh ! what power might religion have had, if it breathed this tone of confidence ; if it had gone di Into the deep and silent places of the heart as thcf) voice of friendship ; if it had known what doar and precious treasures of love and hope and joy are therej ready to be made celestial by its touch ; if it had ^wkm to man as the most affectionate parent would speak to his most beloved, though sadly erring child: if it bad said, in the emphatic language of the textn " Unto you, 0?nen, I call; and my voice is to the of men : lo ! I have set my love upon you — upon a of the strong and affectionate nature, of the aspiiv' B^^ and' heaven- needing soul — not upon inferior crea- , not upon the beasts of the field, but upon you } i set my love. Give entrance to me, iwt with fear i mistrust, but with good hope and with gladnessi; e entrance to me, and I will make my abotle with I, aiul I will build up all that is within you, in glory, md beauty, and ineffable brightness. " Alas! for oat ■ and sinful, but also misguided and ill-used *. Bad enough, indeed, we have made it, or si it to be made : but if a better lot bad befallen textn ^_ soan^H yoi«U^| 90 UtSCOURSB \i if kiiHltier influences had breathed . upon it,;. )F:tlu parent's and the preacher's voice, inspired with ..evt^ lone of hallowed feehng, had won it to piety ; if ,Ule train of Eocial life, with every attractive charm of goodness, had led it in the consecrated way; we had ere this—known what now, alasl ne so poorly know— we had known what it is to be children of God aod heirs of heaven. My friends, let religion epeak to us in its own true character, with all its mighty power and winning can- dour and tenderness. It is the priuciplo of inlii;ule wisdom that speaks. From that unknown period be- fore the world was created — so saith the holy record— from the depth of eternity, from the centre of infinity, from the heart of the universe, from "the bosom of God," its voice has come forth, and spoken to us— to us, men, in our lowly habitations. What a minis- tration is it! It is the infinite communing with iJie finite i it is might communing with frailty ; it is raeroy stretching out its arms to the guilty ; it is goodness taking part with all thut is good in us against all that is evil. So full, so overflowing, so all -pervading is it, that all things give it utterance. It speaks to us in everything lowly, and in everytliing loitjf. ,It speaks to us in every whispered accent of human afleo- tion, and in every revelation that is. sounded out Orpm the spreading heavens. It speaks to us from this lowJy seat at which we bow down in prayer — from this humble shrine veiled with the shadows of mortal infir- mity ; and it speaks to us alike from those altar-fires that blaze in the heights of the firmament, It speaks where the seven thunders utter their voices ; and it sends forth its voice — of pity more than human, of DISCOURSE 1 a^ny more than mortal — from the silent summit Calvary. Can a principle so sublime and so benignant as reli- gion speak to us but for our good? Cau infinity, can omnipotence, can boundless love speak to us but in the spirit of infinite generosity, and candour, and ten- derness ? No ; it may be the infirmity of man to a harsh tone, and to heap upon us bitter and cruel u] braidings ; but so speaks not religion. It says- I (race an accent of tenderness and entreaty in evei word^' Unto you, O men, I call ; and my voice — i voice is to the children of men." O man ! whosoever thou art, hear that voicf dom. Hear it, thou sacred conscience! and way to evil ; touch no bribe, touch not dishonest gain^ touch not the sparkling cup of unlawful pleasure. Heal itt ye better affections, dear and holy! and turn your purity to pollution, and your sweetness to bitti ncss, and your hope to shame. Hear it, poor, weariei broken, prostrate, human nature '. and rise to peniteni a sanctity, to glory, to heaven. Rise now, lest soon I be for ever too late. Hise at this entreaty of wisdon^J I lor wisdom can utter no more. Rise, — arise at thtl Kfoice — for the universe is exhausted of all its rere' IS — infinity, omnipotence, boundless love hav«' fliivished their uttermost resource in this one provi* f'^n, this one call, this one gospel of mercy ! ] 93 • >'■ I'r * \% ^« l> . ^ j • 1 • f .'■ :ii ' : ' . ■' ^i-: i; -." DISCOURSE VI. ■■'■I SPIRITUAL INTERESTS* REAL A^lJi SUPREMJC. ... John vi. 26, 27. Jesus answered them and said* Verily^ Tfinlji I say unto you. Ye seek me, not because ye saw the ininibles, but because ye did eat of the loaves, and were itlled. t^i>6Ur not for the meat which perisheth, but for that* iaei(£ wld^ endureth unto etemallifa ,.. ^ ^,'J' The contrast here set forth is betweeh a Wol-litt^ mind and a spiritual mind : and so very marked "dud striking is it> that the fact upon which it h baded Biay seem to be altogether extraordinary— a solitliry ilh stance of Jewish stupidity^ and not applicable to Mf other people, or any after-times. OurSaFiottY*'a^< But not to dwell on this question: it is to my pre* 1 Wnt purpose to observe, that the very point from whii^ ] this want of a vivid perception of religious objects has j ivrisen, is the very point from which help must comt& i (Men have not perceived the interests of the mind and I |b«iirt to be the realities that they are. Here is the J «vil, and here we must find the remedy, Let Hm A moral states, experiences, feelings of the soul become i ^t as interesting as the issue of a lawsuit, the s mas of business, or the result of any worldly enterprise I knd there would be no difficulty ; there would be ne I (Complaint of dulnes^, either from our own bosoms or ■^m the lips of others. Strip off from the inward aoitl W DISCO0B8K VI. those many folds anil coverings — the forma and fashions of life, ilie roI*fl of ambition, tlie silken garments of luxury, the fair array of competencp and comfort, and the fair semblnncex of comforl and happiness — strip the niiiKi naked and hare to the view, and unfold those workings within, where feelings and principles make men happy or tnJserabie ; and we should no more have such a thing as religious indifference in the world! Sin there might be — outbreaking passion, outrageoue vice; but apathy there eould not be. It would not require a sentiment of rectitude even, it would hardly need that a man sliould have any religion at all, to feel an interest in things so vital to his welfare, Whj do men care as they do for worldly things ? Is it not because they expect liappiness, or think to ward off misery with them / Only let them be convinced, then, that happiness and misery depend much more upon the principles and affections of their own minds, and would they not transfer the greater portion of their interest to those principles and affections ? Would it not result from a kind of mental necessity, like that which obliges the artisan to look to the mainspring of his machinery ? Add, then, to this distinct perception of the real sources of happiness an ardent benevolence, an earnest desire for men's welfare; and from this union woidd spring that spiritual zeal, that ardour in the concerns of religion and benevolence, of which so much is said, so little is felt, and of which the deficiency ia 80 much lamented. I am willing to make allowance for constitutional differences of temperament, and in- deed for many difficulties ; but still I maintain that there is enough in the power of religious truths and affections to overcome all obstacles. I do maintain. DISCOURSE VI. 9?9 that if the objects of religion were perceived to be wha^l ifaey are, and were felt as they ought to be, and asS every man is capable of feeling them, we should ntf | more have such things among us as dull sermons, or I dull books of piety, or dull conferences on religion ' 1 than dull conversations on the exchange, or dull plead" i ings at tile bar, or even than dull communications of { Zander by the fire-side. ' J I have thus i'ar been engaged with stating the ob^ J vious utility and certain efficacy of the right convic-^| tion on this subject. But I have done it as prelimi^l nary to a closer argument for the right conviction,'! Let us, then, enter more fully upon consideration oflIB the great spiritual interest. Let us, my brethreoM enter somewhat at large into the consideration (^iV religion as an interest ; and of the place which it oc^^ cupies among human interests. Among the cares of V lite; let us consider the care of the soul. For it islfl certain that the interior, the spiritual being, has as yellV obtained no just recognition in the maxims of thUH wsrld. W The mind, indeed— if we would but understand it— «fl I is the great central power in the movements of thiiirS I World's affairs. All the scenes of this life, from theJ^ ■ 'busiest to the most quiet, from the gravest to the gay^^ f est, are the ^Tiried developments of that same mind^>4 The world is spread out as a theatre for one great? f action — the action of the mind ; and it is so to bei4 regarded, whether as a sphere of trial or of suffering,** of enjoyment or of discipline, of private interests orifl I of public history. Life, with all its cares and pursuits, W VVith all its aspects of the superficial, the frivolous, andM nbe gross, is but the experience of a mind. Life, Ifl iay.ilull, plodding;, (wary life, hs maDycal) it, istsfler aII.s spiritual scene; und this is the draoriptioa of it t)int is oftlio tlwpi-st import to us. 1 kDiMv und TO]ieal, tliat the H))pearaiices of itungB, to many ut \eaal, are iviilely dition'nl from this ityn- Wiilation, [ Hin not ignorant of the prevailing' anJ worlilly vieiA-H of tliis subject. 'There aro somt^ I know, who look upou this Hie as a scene not of spitt- lual iulpresUi, biit of worldly pleasures. The grstifi- rations of suiise, the opportuiuties of indulgence, tltc array in which faahion clothes its votaries, llie epics* dour of enteFlaiiiineiils, the fascinations of aouise- nient. absorb them ; or absorb, at least, aJl the admi- ration they feel for the scene of this life. Upon otherB, again, 1 know that the cloud of affliotieti de- scends ; and it seems to them to come down risibly- Evil and trouble arc to them, mainly, things o£ oondi-. tion and circumstance. They are thioking chiefly. oJ this thing as unfortunate, and of liiat as sad ; and tliey forget that intrinsic character of the mind which leiub the darkest hue, and which might give an aspect, of more tthan earthly brightness, to all their suflenaga. And then again, to the eyes of others toil presents itself;, with rigid sinews and strong arm, ijideed,, but waaay too — weary, worn down with fatigue, and pef haps disconsolate in spirit. And to its earthly-minded victims — for victims they are with that naind — it seems. I know, as if this world were ma.de but to work in ; and as if death, instead of being the grand entrance to inmiortality, were sufficiently commended tothem as a rest and a release. And last of all, gaini. the master-pureuit of all, sinoe it minister^ to alL other pursuits, urges its objects upon our attention. There DISCOtTRSE VI. ^Bre those, I know, to whom this world — world i ^Pi|)iritual probation and immortal hope as it is — is biS ' p often worldly, while the same man in retirement in, ifter his manner, devout. n* i , What, then, are the evils in society at large l-l | er, tliey are, mainly, evils of the mindi Lot I J descend lo particulars. Some, for instance, are I Ipressed and irritated by neglect, and others aj« i lated and injured by flattery. These are laig^ j uses of society around us ; and the first, I think, by i fcr the largest class. Both are unfortunate, both bm I fcrong, probably} and not only so, but society (bl Iprong for. treating them in these ways, — and ihfe I taTong, the eyil in every instance, lies in the nunA. I 104 mscouRSB n. Sctne. again, want exciienieutr want object ; anddu^ and rsligioii would dU their hearts with conKstit peace, aud with a plenitude of happy tboughb. Olhtirs want reslraiat, want the power to deny them- «elvet)>aiKl want tokcow that suchaelf'denial is blessed; and tiiie piety would teach them this lody knowledge ; true piety would gently artd slroii|[ly control all tfarir pafHions. Id t«hort, eimui and exceHs, iut^uperanw, slander, variance, rivalship, pride, and ea,vy, — -thoM are the miseries of society, and they are all miserips that exist in the niiad. Where would our account end, if we were to enumerate all the things thai awakn our fears in the progress and movements of tlie soeia] VForld around us ? Good men differ and rejact each other's light and countenance, and bad meii. alas I agree but too well ; wise men dispute, and tools Laugh ; the sel£sh grasp ; the ambidous strive ; the sensual indulge themselvea ; and it seems, at times, as if Ute world were going surely, if not swiftly, to destructjov! And why ? Only, and always, and everywhere, be- cause the mind is not right. Put holy truth in etvey false lieart, instd a sacred piety into every worldly mindj and a blessed virtue into every fountain of oor^ rupt desires ; and the anxieties of piiilanthropy r^^gfat be hushed, and the tears of benevolent prayer and jait!^ might be dried up, and patriotism and piety might gaze upon the scene and tlie prospect with muniogled joy. Surely, then, the great iiiterests of society are emphatically the interests of rehgion and virtue. - ' " " And if we estimate tlie condition of society nijc^ tl» great scale of ita national interests, we shall SH^^ that intellectual and moral character marks evAW* degree upon that scale. Why is it that the preaBii 1051 ^rand em of promBe in the world is so perilous too? Why is it that Europe, with her struggling multitude of states, and her strug^Ung multitude of people), J camiot safely work out that great political reform, I which the eyes of her thousands and her millions ai anxiously and eagerly looking ? Why is the bright aad'l broad pathway before her darkened to the vision of ■ the philosophic and wise^darkened with doubt an) L apprehension ? Only, I repeat, and always, and everji* I I where, because the mind is not right. Put sound v .4om and sobriety and mutual good- wilt into I jiearts of all rulers and people, and the way would \i ,~|)laiDj and easy, and certain, and glorious. - But let us contract again the circle of our observit^ tion. Gather any circle of society to its evening a •embly. And what is the m\ there ? He must thiidLl but little who imagines there is none. I confess thak| j^re are few scenes that more strongly dispose me t N tlic rich mnn, or the man nliu is amWasfuUy striving to be rich ? It is not po\-eity. certainly, nor is it exactly possession. It is occasioool disappointment, it is continual aiiixieiy, it is the extra' vagant desire of property, or, worse than all, the vicious abuse of it; and all these too are evils of tlv mind. Bill let our worldly man, who will see nothing but ihe'ontside of things, who will value nothing but po9- sessions, take another view of his interest. What k il that cheats, circumvents, overreAclies him ? It is dishonesty. What disturbs, vexes, angers him ? It is gome wrong from another, or something wrong in himself. What steals his purs*^ or robs his person? it is rot some unfortunate miscliance that hsis comf across his path. It is a being in whom nothing worse resides than fraud and violence. What robs him of that which is dearer than property, his fair name among his fellows ? It is the poisonous breatli of foul and accursed slander. And what is it, in fine, that threatens the security, order, peace, and well-being of society at large ; that threatens, if unrestrained, to deprive our estates, our coml'orts, our domestic en- jojrments, our personal respectability, and our whole social condition, of more than half their value? It is the spirit of injustice and wild misrule in the human breast ; it is political intrigue, or popular violence ; it is the progress of corruption, intemperance, lascivi- DISCOURSE VI. ^^J rflusness,— the progress of vice and sin, in all their J forms I know that these are very simple truths;^ but if they are very simple and very certain, how ii it that men are so worldly ? Put obligation out of the I question ; how is it that they are not more sagacious I and wary with regard to their interests ? How is k I that the means of religion and virtue are so indifferent I to many, in comparison with the means of acquiring ] ^P^operty or office? How is il that many imite and .contrihute so coldly and reluctantly for the support of government, learning and Christian institutions, who sa eagerly combine for the prosecution of moneyed specu* lations, and of party and worldly enterprises ? How i, 1% I repeat ? Men desire happiness, and a very clear 1 fllrgumeiit may be set forth to show them where theuf I i^appiness lies. And yet here is presented to you tlie> I broad fact — and with this fact I will close the present I tneditation — that while men's welfare depends mainly I •bu their own minds, they are actually and almost uni- f i^rsally seeking it in things without them ; that ainonjj; J l^be objects of actual desire and pursuit, affections and I [fdrtues, in the world's esteem, bear no comparisobi i^nth possessions and honours; nay, that men are-l [everywhere and every day sacrificing, ay, sacrificing! ijftfTections and virtues — sacri6cing the dearest treasure* I iTif the soTil lor what they call goods, and jiLeasureB,, F and distinctions. 118 DISCOURSE VII. SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREMB* John vi. 27* IaImut not for the meat that periflheth» bmlbr that meat which endoieth unto eternal life. The interests of the mind and hearts spiritual in* terests^ in other words, — ^the interests invoWed in reli« gion> are real and supreme. Neglected, disregarded* ridiculed, ruined as they may be — ^ruined as they may be in mere folly, in mere soom — ^they are still real and supreme. Notwithstanding all appearances* de- lusions, fashions, and opinions to the contrary, this is true, and will be true for ever. All essential interests centre ultimately in the soul ; all that do not centre there are circumstantial, transitory, evanescent ; they belong to the things that perish. This is what I have endeavoured to show this morning, and for this purpose I have appealed in the first place to society. My second appeal is to Providence. Society* indeed,, is a part of the system of Providence ; but let me in* vite you to consider, under this head, that the interest of the soul urged in the gospel is, in every respect, the great object of Heaven's care and providence. The world, which is appointed for our temporary dwelling-place, was made for this end. The whole DISCOURSE VII. 11 creation around us is, to the soul, a. subject and ministeriDg creation. The mighty globe itself, with all its glorious apparatus and fiirniture, is but a theatre for the care of the soul — the theatre for its redemption. This vast universe is but a means. But look at the earth alone. Why was it made such as it is ? Its fruit- J ful soils, its rich valleys, its mountain-tops, and its I rolling oceans; its humbler scenes, clothed with beauty I and light, good even in the sight of their Maker, fair I —Hair to mortal eyes— why were they given ? Thnji J were not given for mere sustenance and supply, for M much less would have sufficed for that end. Th^xJ need not have been so fair to have answered that end. I They could have spared their verdure, and flowers, anlf ■ fragranccj and still have yielded sustenance. TH^I groves might never have waved in the breeze, but I itave stood in the rigidity of an iron forest ; the hilGr 1 lliuight not have been moulded into forms of beautji 1 Hbe streams might hot have sparkled in their course I pdr the ocean have reflected the blue depths i^J |l^ven; and yet they might have furnished all neeQ^*M ftft sustenance. No, they were not given for thjsj jdone ; but they were given to nourish and kindle 1 (d the human soul a glory and a beauty, of which 3 ■11 dutward grandeur and loveliness are but the'. ] bnage — given to show forth the majesty and love oT 1 ptKl, and to form in man a resemblance to that majesty . pndlove. Think, then, of a being in such a. position.' J ftiid with such a ministry, made to be the intelligeni' J pompaniou of God's glorious works, the interpreter or j nature, the Lord of the creation, — made to be tlie s^r- m ftnt of God alone, And yet this being — oh ! miserable J jcBsappoiiitment and failure '. — makes himself the slave fl ] ■idadr 1 .. ^s sbve of (Mtxrsrd goods and , dir ^mr nf «reTT^ire->(nmgv and piVning strange is it ! the oecn- DISCOURSK VII. 118 ' pations and objects that were given for discipline, and .the trial of the spirit, and the trainings of it to virtue, are made the ultimate end and the chief good ; ye^J ■these which were designed for humble means of good ■ ■to the soul, are made the engrossing pursuits, the ab- I sorting pleasures and possessicms, in which the soul- 1 'itself is forgotten and lost ! ' m Thus spiritual in its design is nature. Thus spiritual I in its just aspects is the scene of life ; no dull scen^ I when rightly regarded ; no merely wearisome, uncoiU- fl pensated toil, or perplexing business ; but a niinistra^fl tion to purposes of infinite greatness and sublimity. ' I We are speaking of human interests, God also lookt I I upon the interest of his creatures. But he seeth not 1 aa man secth. Man looketh on the outward appear^ j ance, but God looketh on the heart. lie sees that alt ] jraman interests centre there. He sees there the J ^thering, the emboBoming, the garnering up of aH I that is precious to an immortal creature. TlierefoffrJ |t is that, as the strongest proof of his love to the worU,,! he gave his Son to live for our teaching and guidance^ I d to die for our redemption from sin and death and I kII. Every bright example, every pure doctrine, every I enconraging promise, every bitter pang endured, point*. J D the soul for its great design and end. And let | ne say, that if I have seemed to any one to speak 1 1 language over refined or spiritual, 1 can no other- ( understand the teachings of the great Master. J Bis words would often be mystery and extravagance lA. fl boe if I did not feel that the soul is everything, and I diat the world is nothing but what it is to the soufe M With this perception of the true value of things, I n^M quire no transcendental piety ; 1 require nothing but I m DISCOURSE VII. common sense to understand what he says wlieri He pronounces men to be deaf, and blind, and diseauS. and dead in sins ; for, to give up the joys of the soiil for tlic joys of sense, to neglect the tieart for the w^- waid condition, to forego inward good lit the eagerfllsK for visible good, to forget and to forsake God anu^ lu8 rery works and mercies — this is, indeed, a mourn- ful blindness, a sad disorder of the rational nature ; and. when the evil is conaum[nate>cI, it is a moral death! True, there may be no tears for it, save in here and there one who retires from the crowd to think of the strange delusion, and the grievous misfortune, and the degrading unworthincss. There are no tokens of piiV lie mourning for the calamity of the soul. MeO Ve^ when the body dies ; and when it is borne to its last rest, they follow it with sad and mournful procession. But for the djing soul there is no open lamentation; for the lost soul there are no obsequies. And yet, when the great account of life is made up — tliough the words we now speak can but approach to the truth and may leave but slight impression — the things we may tteil remember — God forbid that we should have themt^ remember ! — but the thmgs we may then have toj re^ member— life's misdirected toil, the world's deluutnis, the thoughts unguarded, the conscience every day violated, the soul for ever neglected — these, oh ! these will weigh upon the spirit^ like those mountains wmcn men are represented in prophetic vision as vainly call; jng upon to cover them. III. But I am now verging upon Ihe third and final argument which I proposed to use for the care of our spiritual interests, and that is to be found in their va^B^ I have shown that society, in all its pursuits, obj^^H r DISCOURSE VII. aiid scenes, urges this care ; that nature, and provi-«i Aeace, and revelation minister to it; and I now say^ that the soul is intrinsically and independently nortiiil this care. Put all consequences to social man out tittU sight, if it be possible j draw a veil over all the bright^B and glorious ministry of nature ; let the teachings ofB Providence all he silent ; let the gospel be a fable J^ ajid still the mind of man has a value which nothing*! ^tse has, it is worth a care which nothing else is worthy >l and to the single solitary individual it ought to posses an interest which nothing else possesses. .Indeed, at every step by which we advance in tl subjectj the contrast between what is and what o to be, presses upon us. Men very well understand il vi^ord value. They know very well what interests are>f1 Offices, stoclis, nionopohes, mercantile privileges, i interests. Nay, even the chances of profit are interestffJ 80 dear, that men contend for themi and about theiartj ahnost as if they were striving for life. And valut i^ow carefully, and accurately, and distinctly j^alily stamped upon every object in this world ! Cui 'rency has value, and bonds have value; and broi lauds, and freighted ships, and rich mines are all< marked down in the table of this strict account, ifii ^le exchange, and you shall know what they ^orth ; and you shall know what men will give ft uem. But the stored treasures of the heart, the «jnned,lhe unfathomable mines that are to be wi'oughf I in the soul, the broad and boundless realms of though^ file freighted ocean of man's affections — of his love,^ ■flis gratitude, his hope — who will regard thera?- •^k for tliem, 9a if they were brighter than gold,* <:dearer.than treasuM^j ,- ^| US DlSOaURSE VII. Thp mind, 1 repeat— how little is it known or ron- flideri'd! Tlmt all which man permanently is, — tl» inward being, ihe divine energy, the immorta.! thought, tlu^ Itoundless eupacity, the infinite aspiration — ho* few value tllis, this wonderful mind, for what it is worth ! How few see it — that brother mind — in others; see it in all ihe forms of splendour and wretch- ednesa alike — see if, though feneed around » ith all the artificial distinctions of society — see it, through tlw rags with which poverty has clothed it, beneath the crushing burthens of life, amidst the close pressure of worldly troubles, wants, and sorrows — see it, and ac- knowledge and cheer it in that humble lot, and feol that the nobility of earth, that the commencing glory irf heaven, is therel Nor is this the worst, nor the strongest view of tile case. Men do not feel the worth of their own miiids. They are very proud, perliapa ; they are proud of their possessions, they arc proud of th«r minds, it may be, as distinguishing them ; but the in- trinsic, the inward, the infinite worth of their own minds they do not perceive. How many a man is there who woidd feel, if he were introduced into some magnifi- cent palace, and were led through a succession of splen- did apartments, filled with rich and gorgeous furni- ture — would feel, I say, as if he, lofty immortal being as he is, were but an ordinary thing amidst tlie tin- selled show around him ; or would feel as if he were a more ordinary being, for the perishing glare of things amidst which he walked! How many a man, who, as he passed along the way-side, saw the chariot of wealth rolling by him, would forget the intrinsic and eternal dignity of his own mind, in a poor degrading envy of that vain pageant- — would feel himself fo be a DISCOURSE VII. tlSlI ibl^r creature, because, JiQt in mind, but Iq menmi-tfl ioD, he was ;iat ijuite so high! And aolong'^s thb^l ithe case, do you believe that men understand then^ owf], minds, tlig.!, they know what they pQsspss withirtW tbera ? How many. Id fact, I'eel as if tliat inwaril being'^^fl that mind, wera respectable, chiefly because their bodteftf-fl lean on, ^Ikei) couches, and are fed with costly luxu-^J lies! How. many respect themselves, and look fdBhl respect from others, in proportion aa they grow mDrfliS rich, aiid live more 9plendi